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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

ELIZABETH  AND  JAMES  ABA  JIAN 
COLLECTION  OF  AFRO- AMERICANA 


J.   MADISON   BELL. 


ClK 


Poetical  Klerks 


OF 


James  Madison  Bell 


INCLUDING 

'Creation  tight," 
Che  Dawn  of  freedom, 
tfte  Day  and  the  Ular, 
Che  triumph  of  Liberty, 
Cbe  future  of  Jlmerica< 


Pl*C$$  Of 

Ulynkoop  liallenbcck  Crawford  Co. 
of  Eansttifl, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1901,  by 

WILMOT  A.  JOHNSON,  PUBLISHER, 

In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.C. 
[  All  rights  reserved.] 


BISHOP  B.  W.  ARNETT,  D.  D. 


Biographical  Sfcetcb 

of 

*  flfeabison  Bell 

Bistinouisbefc  Original  poet 

and 

IReafcer. 

My  JBisbop  3B.  m  Brnett,  2>.  2>. 

The  wealth  of  a  nation  does  not  consist  alone 
in  its  bonds,  gold,  silver  or  lands,  but  the  true 
wealth  consists  in  the  intelligence,  courage,  in- 
dustry and  frugality  of  the  men,  the  intelligence, 
culture  and  virtue  of  its  womanhood.  Each  gen- 
eration produces  its  men  and  women  for  the 
times  in  which  they  live. 

If  it  is  war,  warriors  are  produced.  In  case  of 
law,  judges  and  others  are  produced,  so  that  the 
times,  whether  of  an  individual,  family  or  race, 
very  seldom  calls  for  a  man,  that  he  is  not  to  be 
found  to  lead  on  the  armies,  to  teach  its  children, 
to  encourage  its  people  to  renewed  energy  and 
effort.  Our  race  is  no  exception  to  the  general 
rule  of  history.  During  all  of  our  sorrowful  and 


4  BELL'S     POEMS. 

sad  history,  we  have  had  men  and  women  when 
needed. 

In  contrasting  the  present  time  with  the  past 
there  is  great  reason  for  encouragement,  for  at 
the  close  of  the  last  century  there. was  only  one 
to  sing  our  songs  and  weave  the  garland  of  poetry 
on  the  brow  of  the  suffering  race,  or  to  offer 
laurels  to  the  race  who  had  won  victories  for  the 
cause  of  human  liberty  and  justice. 

Phillis  Wheatley  was  the  morning  star  of  the 
rising  womanhood  of  the  race,  our  first  poet,  and 
since  that  time  we  have  had  many  who  have  en- 
livened our  march  by  their  music  and  encouraged 
our  hearts  by  their  words  of  inspiration  and 
hope. 

During  the  darkest  hours  of  our  bondage,  dur- 
ing the  time  of  the  enforcement  of  the  fugitive 
slave  law,  when  the  heavens  were  dark  and 
clouds  covered  the  sky,  and  there  appeared  to 
be  no  hope  for  the  freemen  of  the  North,  or  for 
the  slaves  of  the  South,  all  appeared  to  be  lost,  all 
avenues  to  opportunities  were  closed,  in  that  sad 
hour  Frances  Ellen  Watkins,  the  poetess  of  hope, 
like  Miriam  of  old  on  the  borders  of  the  Red 
Sea,  struck  up  the  songs  and  notes,  and  sang, — 

"  Yes,   Ethiopia   yet   shall   stretch   her  bleeding 

hands  abroad, 

Her  cry  of  agony  shall  reach  the  burning  throne 
of  God." 

Thus  this  song  was  sung  in  the  home,  in  the 
school  and  in  the  church,  and  hope  appeared  to 
rise  in  the  pathway  of  the  coming  generation  and 
lightened  the  path  of  the  children  of  despair. 

When  the  heavens  were  threatening  and  many 
were  faint  of  heart,  then  the  bow  of  promise 


BELL'S     POEMS.  5 

spanned  the  western  sky,  it  was  during  the  dark 
hours  of  our  nation's  history,  it  was  then  a  new 
star  appeared  above  the  horizon  and  a  new 
trumpet  sounded,  new  notes  were  heard  and  the 
vibrations  of  the  sound  reached  from  ocean  to 
ocean,  it  was  then  that  the  subject  of  our  sketch 
came  upon  the  stage  and  became  a  lamp  to  our 
feet  and  a  light  to  our  pathway. 

James  Madison  Bell  was  born  April  3,  1826, 
at  Gallipolis,  Ohio.  He  lived  there  until  he  was 
17  years  of  age.  In  i842  he  removed  to  Cincin- 
nati, Ohio,  and  lived  with  his  brother-in-law, 
George  Knight,  and  learned  the  plasterer's  trade. 
Mr.  Knight  was  one  of  the  best  mechanics  in  the 
city. 

At  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Bell  in  Cin- 
cinnati, the  subject  of  education  was  agitated 
among  the  colored  and  white  people.  The  school 
question  was  one  of  the  living  and  burning  ques- 
tions, and  had  been  since  1835.  Previous  to  that 
time  the  schools  were  private,  taught  by  white 
men  for  white  children,  but  Mr.  Wing  and  a 
number  of  others  allowed  the  colored  youth  to 
attend  the  night  schools.  Peter  H.  Clark,  in 
speaking  of  the  time  that  Mr.  Bell  came  to  Cin- 
cinnati, uses  the  following  language: 

"A  number  of  young  men  and  women,  rilled 
with  the  spirit  of  hatred  to  slavery,  and  a  desire 
to  labor  for  a  down-trodden  race,  came  into  the 
city  and  established  schools  at  various  points, 
one  in  the  colored  Baptist  church  on  Western 
Row,  and  was  taught  at  various  times  by  Messrs. 
Barber,  E.  Fairchilds,  W.  Robinson  and  Angus 
Wattles.  Among  the  ladies  there  were  the  Misses 
Bishop,  Lowe,  Mathews,  and  Mrs.  Merrill.  They 
were  all  excellent  teachers,  deeply  imbued  with 


6  BELL'S     POEMS. 

a  desire  to  do  good,  and  are  remembered  with 
gratitude  by  those  who  received  instruction  at 
their  hands.  They  were  subject  to  much  con- 
tumely and  abuse.  Boarding-house  keepers  re- 
fused to  entertain  them,  placing  their  trunks  upon 
the  sidewalk,  and  telling  them  that  they  had  no 
accommodation  for  'teachers  of  niggers.'  They 
were  obliged  to  club  together  and  rent  a  house 
and  board  themselves.  Frequently  the  scholars 
would  be  unable  to  meet  regularly  because  of 
mob  violence.  A  part  of  the  salaries  of  these 
teachers  was  paid  by  an  educational  society,  com- 
posed of  benevolent  whites,  many  of  whom  sur- 
vived to  witness  the  triumph  "of  principles  which 
they  espoused  amid  such  obliquy. 

"A  number  of  colored  men  co-operated  heartily 
in  this  work,  among  whom  may  be  named  Baker 
Jones,  Joseph  Fowler,  John  Woodson,  Dennis 
Hills,  John  Liverpool,  Wm.  O'Hara  and  others. 
These  schools  continued,  with  varying  fortunes, 
until  1844,  when  Rev.  Hiram  S.  Gilmore,  a 
young  man  of  good  fortune,  fine  talents  and  rare 
benevolence,  established  the  Cincinnati  high 
school,  which  was,  in  some  respects,  the  best 
school  ever  established  in  the  city  for  colored 
people.  Its  proprietor,  or  rather  patron,  spared 
no  expense  to  make  it  a  good  success.  Ground 
was  purchased  at  the  east  end  of  Harrison  street, 
and  a  commodious  building  of  five  large  rooms 
and  a  chapel  was  fitted  up.  Good  teachers  were 
employed  to  instruct  in  the  common  branches  of 
an  English  course,  besides  which  Latin,  Greek, 
music  and  drawing  were  taught." 

The  subject  of  our  sketch  was  a  busy  man ;  he 
worked  by  day  and  studied  by  night.  He  worked 
at  his  trade  in  the  summer  and  fall  and  studied 


BELL'S,    POEMS.  7 

in  the  winter,  each  spring  coming  out  renewed 
in  strength  and  increased  in  knowledge.  It  was 
in  these  times  that  Mr.  Bell  entered  school,  and 
at  the  same  time  was  indoctrinated  into  the  prin- 
ciples of  radical  anti-slaveryism.  It  was  in  this 
school,  in  connection  with  Oberlin  College,  that 
the  sentiment  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  was  born 
in  Walnut  Hills,  Cincinnati,  giving  an  impetus  to 
the  cause  of  human  freedom.  Thus  imbued  and 
thus  indoctrinated,  he  desired  a  wider  field  to 
breathe  a  freer  atmosphere  where  his  sphere 
.of  usefulness  could  be  enlarged,  which  could  only 
be  enjoyed  under  the  British  flag. 

In  August,  1854,  he  moved  with  his  family  to 
Chatham,  Canada,  where  he  lived  until  1860. 

Mr.  Bell  was  a  personal  friend  of  John  Brown, 
of  Harper's  Ferry.  He  was  a  member  of  his 
counsel  in  Canada  and  assisted  in  enlisting  men 
to  go  upon  their  raid.  He  was  his  guest  while 
the  recruiting  was  going  on  in  Canada  and  was 
one  of  the  last  men  to  see  John  Brown  when  he 
left  Canada  for  the  United  States.  He  only 
escaped  the  fate  of  many  of  John  Brown's  men 
by  the  providence  of  God. 

He  assisted  in  raising  money  to  carry  on  the 
work,  and  is  one  of  the  last  men  now  living  who 
was  personally  connected  with  the  Harper's  Ferry 
raid.  All  honor  to  the  men  who  gave  aid,  coun- 
sel and  support  to  the  hero  of  Harper's  Ferry. 

It  was  while  in  his  twenty-second  year  that  he 
courted  and  married  Miss  Louisana  Sanderline, 
and  to  this  marriage  a  number  of  children  were 
born,  who  became  useful  men  and  women.  In 
Canada  he  pursued  his  trade  and  was  very  suc- 
cessful and  accumulated  some  money,  but  having 
a  desire  for  a  broader  field,  on  the  second  day  of 


8  BELL'S     POEMS. 

February,  1860,  he  started  for  California  and 
landed  at  San  Francisco  on  the  29th  of  the  same 
month. 

On  arriving  on  the  Pacific  coast  he  found  the 
leaders  of  his  race  in  an  active  campaign  against 
the  disabilities  of  the  children  and  the  race  in 
that  new  country.  He  immediately  became  one 
of  them,  and  joined  hands,  heart  and  brain  to 
assist  in  breaking  the  fetters  from  the  limbs  of 
his  race  in  California  and  giving  an  equal  oppor- 
tunity for  the  people  to  acquire  an  education. 

He  was  united  on  the  coast  with  a  noble  band 
of  leaders;  among  them  were  Rev.  T.  M.  D. 
Ward,  Darius  Stokes,  John  J.  Moore,  Barnet 
Fletcher,  J.  B.  Sanderson,  Rev.  John  T.  Jennifer, 
Richard  Hall,  F.  G.  Barbadoes,  and  Philip  A. 
Bell,  editor  of  the  Pacific  Appeal. 

Rev.  James  H.  Hubbard,  in  speaking  of  the 
pioneers  of  the  gold  coast,  says  they  endured 
many  privations,  chief  among  which  were  the 
''lack  of  home  comforts  and  influences."  It  had 
been  enacted  in  the  laws  of  the  golden  state  that 
negroes  were  not  permitted  to  testify  in  cases 
where  white  men  were  the  principals ;  the  children 
were  denied  admission  to  the  common  schools. 
The  people  became  aroused  and  held  several 
state  conventions.  At  these  conventions  the  lead- 
ers of  the  race  took  an  active  part,  and  no  one  did 
more  than  J.  Madison  Bell. 

At  the  convention  held  'by  the  ministers  of  the 
African  Methodist  Episcopal  church  he  took  a 
prominent  part  in  the  convention,  united  his  in- 
telligence and  moral  forces  with  the  people.  A 
convention  of  ministers  and  laymen  met  Tuesday, 
September  3,  1863,  in  San  Francisco.  Brother 
Barney  Fletcher  called  the  meeting  to  order  and 


BELL'S     POEMS.  9 

Elder  T.  M.  D.  Ward  was  appointed  chairmen. 
In  this  convention  they  discussed  the  subjects  of 
the  church  and  state.  We  find  Mr.  Bell  partici- 
pating in  the  convention  and  is  recorded  as  being 
a  steward  of  the  church  at  San  Francisco.  He 
was  a  member  of  the  committees  on  finance  and 
ministry,  and  their  reports  gave  the  proper  key- 
note for  ministerial  education.  He  was  on  the 
committee  on  Sabbath  schools  and  delivered  sev- 
eral addresses  before  the  people. 

While  in  California,  some  of  his  most  stirring 
poems  were  written.  The  poems  on  "Emancipa- 
tion," "Lincoln,"  "The  Dawn  of  Freedom,"  and 
the  "War  Poems"  were  all  written  while  living  at 
the  Golden  Gate.  One  of  his  finest  poems  is  his 
"Valedictory  on  Leaving  San  Francisco."  He 
left  California  and  came  back  to  the  Atlantic 
states  in  1865,  just  in  time  to  fulfill  his  mission 
to  the  race  by  encouraging  the  new-born  freed- 
men  in  their  new  duties  and  responsibilities. 

He  returned  to  Canada  to  visit  his  family,  and 
after  remaining  for  a  short  time  he  removed  to 
Toledo,  Ohio,  and  brought  his  family  with  him. 
For  two  years  he  traveled  from  city  to  city  and 
proclaimed  the  truth  and  doctrines  of  human 
liberty,  instructed  and  encouraged  his  race  Jjo 
noble  deeds  and  to  great  activity  in  building  up 
their  newly-made  homes. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  I  met  him — and 
to  meet  him  is  to  love  him — and  we  became  warm 
and  true  friends.  From  that  day  until  now  I 
have  been  one  of  his  most  ardent  admirers,  by 
reason  of  the  congeniality  of  the  man,  of  his  in- 
trinsic worth  and  his  ability  as  a  native  poet. 

His  poetry  is  like  the  flowing  of  the  mountain 
spring,  the  secret  of  its  source  is  unknown.  It 


10  BELL'S     POEMS. 

was  not  a  well  dug  or  bored,  but  a  natural  out- 
flowing of  the  crystalline  stream,  which  came 
bubbling,  sparkling,  leaping,  rolling,  tumbling 
and  jumping  down  the  mountain  side,  flowing 
out  over  the  plain  like  a  silver  brook  on  its  jour- 
ney towards  the  sea,  furnishing  water  for  thirsty 
beast  and  man,  power  for  mills  and  factories, 
and  life  for  the  vegetable  world.  So  it  is  with 
the  poems  of  Mr.  Bell.  They  will  be  read  by 
the  inhabitants  of  the  mansion  and  hut,  studied  in 
the  school  house,  college  and  university,  recited 
in  the  parlor,  lyceum,  on  the  platform,  and  quoted 
by  pulpit  and  press. 

During  the  years  1867  and  1868  in  Cincinnati. 
Ohio,  night  after  night  I  accompanied  him  in  his 
readings ;  thence  to  Lockland,  Glendale,  Ham- 
ilton and  other  places,  where  I  had  the  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  of  witnessing  some  of  the  effects 
of  his  poems.  He  read  "Modern  Moses"  or 
"Andrew  Johnson  Swinging  Around  the  Circle" 
with  telling  effect. 

During  these  years  of  instruction,  for  he  was 
instructing  the  people  of  their  political  and  civic 
duties,  they  needed  a  teacher  and  leader,  and  no 
one  could  have  done  it  better  than  the  manner 
in  which  he  presented  it.  It  was  like  the  music 
that  comes  from  the  heavenly  source.  His  poems 
were  read  in  all  of  the  large  cities  of  the  North 
and  South,  and  many  a  young  man  who  was  not 
an  honor  to  his  race  and  a  blessing  to  his  people 
received  the  first  spark  of  inspiration  for  true 
greatness  from  hearing  the  poems  of  our  sub- 
ject. In  Washington,  St.  Louis,  Baltimore, 
Louisville,  Atlanta  and  Charleston,  the  people 
opened  their  arms  and  received  the  words  after 


BELL'S     POEMS.  11 

beholding  the  star  of  hope  as  held  out  by  the 
readings  of  our  subject. 

After  traveling  for  several  years  he  returned 
to  Toledo,  Ohio,  where  his  family  resided.  His 
star  rested  over  the  city  on  the  Maumee,  arid 
from  that  time  until  now  he  has  been  known  as 
the  "Bard  of  the  Maumee." 

He  would  follow  his  trade  in  the  summer  and 
fall,  travel  and  read  his  poems  during  the  win- 
ter— holding  the  trowel  in  one  hand  and  his  pen 
in  the  other.  He  was  one  of  the  best  artists  in 
his  city  and  neighboring  towns,  always  busy, 
calls  more  than  he  could  fill  for  artistic  work, 
though  he  labored  hard,  yet  on  going  home  in  the 
evenings  the  muse  would  call  him  and  a  poem 
was  born.  Many  of  his  brightest  gems  of  thought 
were  born  on  the  scaffold  and  cradled  in  his 
wagon. 

I  have  known  him  to  sit  down,  and  in  a  conver- 
sation some  of  the  most  beautiful  expressions 
would  come  from  his  lips,  thoughts  that  were 
crystallized,  clothed  in  silken  language,  and  were 
marshaled  like  an  army  on  the  battle  field.  His 
logic  was  irresistible,  like  a  legion  of  cavalry 
led  by  Sheridan ;  troop  after  troop  he  would  hurl 
against  the  logical  battery  of  his  opponent, 
whether  in  debate  or  speech,  and  the  conclusion 
was  shouts  of  victory  heard  above  the  music  of 
the  heart  and  the  songs  of  the  soul, 

I  was  in  the  city  of  Toledo  from  1870  to  1873. 
For  three  years  I  was  his  pastor.  During  my 
stay  in  the  city  he  was  the  superintendent  of  the 
Sunday  school.  He  never  failed  to  do  his  duty, 
and  he  was  present  every  Sunday.  Frederick 
Douglas  was  a  man  like  him.  I  remember  while 


12  BELL'S     POEMS. 

in  Chicago  he  said:  "I  make  it  a  rule  to  go  to 
church  and  Sunday  school  once  a  day,  that  the 
rising  generation  may  know  that  Fred  Douglas 
is  on  the  side  of  the  church  and  Sunday  school.'' 

While  living  in  Toledo,  J.  Madison  Bell  was 
elected  a  delegate  from  Lucas  county  to  the  state 
convention,  and  there  he  was  elected  as  a  delegate 
at  large  from  the  state  of  Ohio  to  the  national 
convention,  which  met  in  Philadelphia,  May, 
1872.  At  this  convention  General  Grant  was  re- 
nominated  for  the  presidency  of  the  United 
States.  During  the  campaign  his  voice  was  heard 
in  many  portions  of  the  state,  pleading  for  the  re- 
election of  the  hero  of  Appomattox. 

His  life  has  been  one  of  great  activity;  his 
services  rendered  to  his  race  cannot  be  measured 
by  any  standard  that  we  have  at  our  command. 
His  influences  have  been  one  of  those  subtile 
influences.  Like  the  atmosphere,  it  has  gone 
many  places,  and  the  people  nave  felt  and  acted 
upon  it;  they  have  become  better  and  wiser  by 
reason  of  reading  and  hearing  his  speeches. 

The  honor  of  presenting  an  individual  to  a 
select  company,  or  to  a  distinguished  audience,  is 
one  privilege  a  man,  perhaps,  enjoys  once  in  a  life 
time,  but  the  privilege  that  is  now  afforded  me 
is  of  a  very  high  order — the  privilege  of  intro- 
ducing an  author  and  his  book,  not  to  a  select 
company  of  friends  or  to  a  high  dignitary,  but 
to  the  commonwealth  of  letters,  to  the  reading 
and  thinking  men,  women  and  children  of  the 
present  and  future  generations.  The  honor 
carries  with  it  a  responsibility  for  the  character  of 
the  individual  and  the  character  of  the  book, 
therefore  I  do  not  fear  the  consequence  of  the  in- 


BELL'S     POEMS.  13 

troduction  of  so  distinguished  an  individual  or  so 
useful  a  book. 

I  can  endorse  both,  and  feel  it  an  honor  to  have 
the  privilege  of  so  doing,  for  if  the  book  is  to  find 
its  place  in  the  reading  circle  of  the  world  it  will 
stand  on  its  own  merits ;  it  will  stand  the  exami- 
nation of  the  most  critical,  whether  friend  or 
foe. 

The  book  is  a  collection  of  the  man — a  busy 
man,  a  God-fearing  man,  a  race-loving  man,  one 
who  has  spent  the  better  part  of  his  life  in  work 
and  in  study.  The  poems  are  the  fruitage  of  his 
spare  moments.  I  have  long  and  persistently 
entreated  my  dear  friend  to  have  his  poems  col- 
lected and  published.  He  has  at  last  consented, 
and  the  work  of  compiling  has  been  one  of  love 
and  pleasure. 

I  therefore  take  great  pleasure  in  introducing 
to  the  members  of  the  commonwealth  of  letters, 
J.  Madison  Bell,  "The  Bard  of  the  Maumee." 

It  Was  my  pleasure  and  privilege  to  give  a 
helping  hand  to  Whitman's  "Not  a  Man  and  Yet 
a  Man,"  but  in  this  introduction  it  gives  me 
greater  pleasure  than  I  possess  language  to 
express. 

In  1884  the  general  conference  of  the  A.  M.  E 
church  adjourned  its  session  in  Baltimore  and 
was  received  at  the  white  house  by  the  President 
of  the  United  States,  Chester  A.  Arthur.  It 
was  my  pleasure  to  present  the  bishops,  general 
officers  and  members  to  his  excellency,  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States,  an  honor  enjoyed  by 
few.  This  privilege  of  introducing  one  of  my 
own  race,  of  my  own  church  and  political  faith, 
a  man  whose  poems  will  stand  as  his  monument 


14  BELL'S     POEMS. 

from  generation  to  generation,  and  will  give  light 
and  joy  to  the  laboring  and  struggling  people  for 
many  centuries. 

He  will  lighten  their  burden  and  illumine  their 
pathway,  whether  in  religion  or  politics;  he  will 
stand  and  present  the  "Banishment  of  Man  from 
the  Garden  of  the  Lord,"  and  from  all  of  its 
effects  he  will  hang  the  star  of  hope  over  the 
gateway  of  Eden.  To  the  many  under  op- 
pression, he  will  stand  to  them  the  day  of  "Dawn 
of  Liberty,"  and  to  those  who  are  fighting  the 
battles  of  the  moral,  religious  and  educational 
interests,  he  will  present  them  with  the  "Triumph 
of  Liberty"  or  ""Creation  Light." 


BELL'S     POEMS.  15 


APOSTROPHE  TO  TIME. 

O,  fleeting  Time !  whence  art  thou  come  ? 

And  whither  do  thy  fotsteps  tend  ? 
Deep  in  the  past  where  was  thy  home, 

And  where  thy  future  journey's  end? 

Thou  art  from  vast  eternity, 

And  unto  boundless  regions  found ; 

But  what  and  where 's  infinity? 

And  what  know  we  of  space  unbound  ? 

The  furrowed  brow  betokens  age ; 

But  who  thy  centuries  can  tell? 
Was  ancient  seer  or  learned  sage 

In  wisdom's  lore  e'er  versed  so  well? 

From  childhood  hast  thou  wandered  thus, 
Companionless  and  lone,  through  space, 

With  mystery  o'er  thy  exodus, 

And  darkness  'round  thy  resting  place? 

What  lengthened  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Since  thou  thy  tireless  march  began? 

Since  Luna's  children  sang  at  dawn, 
The  wonders  of  creation's  plan? 

How  many  years  of  gloom  and  night 
Had  passed,  long  ere  yon  king  of  day 

Had  reigned  his  fiery  steeds  of  light, 
And  sped  them  on  their  shining  way  ? 


16  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Thou  knowest — Thou  alone,  O  thou! 

Omniscient  and  eternal  Three ! 
To  whose  broad  eye  all  time  is  now — 

The  past,  with  all  eternity ; 

In  whose  dread  presence  shall  I  stand, 
When  time  shall  sink  to  rise  no  more, 

In  that  broad  sea  of  thy  command, 
Whose  waves  roll  on,  without  a  shore, 

(January  3,  1863.) 


CREATION   LIGHT. 

Deep  in  the  unrecorded  past, 

There  was  an  age  of  darkness  vast, 

And  boundless  as  the  realms  of  space. 
An  age  that  held  in  its  embrace, 

And  in  an  embryotic  state, 

All  worlds  and  systems,  small  and  great. 

An  inorganic  age,  a  night 

In  which  no  star  or  ray  of  light, 

In  all  the  myriad  ages  gone, 

Had  rose  or  smiled  that  night  upon. 

A  dismal,  shoreless  waste  and  void, 
Where  nature,  crude  and  unemployed, 

A  shapeless,  heterogenous  mass 
Had  lain  for  ages,  that  surpass 

The  numerate  skill  of  all  the  line 
Of  men  or  angels  to  define. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  17 

But  when  in  spirit  the  mighty  God 
Moved  o'er  the  dark,  abysmal  flood, 

And  raised  his  omnific  voice  of  might, 

And  said  to  the  deep,  "Let  there  be  light !" 

Lo !  a  bright  orb  of  deathless  flame 
From  out  the  womb  of  darkness  came, 

And  ere  the  silence  was  restored, 
In  radiant  beams  of  light  were  poured 

Upon  a  drear  and  cheerless  waste, 

Where  gloom  and  chaos  had  long  embraced. 

"Let  there  be  light !"  and  God's  first  born, 
Clothed  in  the  princely  garb  of  morn, 

Assumed  his  long  pre-ordered  place, 
And  dropped  the  mantling  from  his  face. 

Grim  darkness  saw,  and  filled  with  dread, 

Her  ebon  pinions  widely  spread, 
And  flew  with  terror-stricken  fright 

Before  the  piercing  beams  of  light. 

"Let  there  be  light !"  and  high  in  heaven, 
Sun,  moon  and  stars,  and  planets  seven, 

Stood  in  their  lots,  moved  in  their  spheres, 
And  time  began  his  march  of  years. 

As  nature  law  immured  in  gloom, 

And  rayless  as  the  lifeless  tomb, 
Until  the  orient  dawn  of  light 

Dispelled  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

E'en  so,  in  ignorance  groped  mankind, 
Till  reason's  torch  illumed  the  mind. 

They  saw  the  burning  sun  at  noon, 
And  the  ever-changing  moon, 


18  BELL'S     POEMS. 

And  saw  the  myriad  stars  that  blaze 
And  fill  with  their  resplendent  rays 

The  deep  nocturnal  vaults  on  high, 

But  never  thought  or  questioned  why. 

Thought  makes  the  man,  'tis  thought  that  soars ; 

Reason,  the  realms  of  thought  explores. 
Oh,  reason  !  wondrous  attribute, 

Thou  land-mark  drawn  'twixt  man  and  brute, 

Thou  art  creation's  highest  test, 

Her  universal  alchymist ; 
For  by  thy  torch  mankind  may  trace 

Nature  e'en  to  her  secret  place, 

And  there  with  meek,  becoming  pride, 

May  cast  the  mystic  veil  aside; 
May  check  the  lightning  in  its  speed, 

Make  it  subservient  to  his  need ; 

Measure  the  sun  as  with  a  chain, 

Prognosticate  the  snow,  the  rain ; 
Distance  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  mark  the  seasons  as  they  roll. 

Oh,  thou !  eternal  source  of  light, 

Ineffable  and  infinite, 
Whom  angels  praise  and  saints  adore, 

Whose  glory  is  and  was  before. 

Before  the  morning  stars  in  songs  sublime, 
Chanted  the  wondrous  birth  of  time, 

Whose  glory  is,  was  and  shall  be, 
When  time  has  filled  his  destiny; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  19 

And  when  the  orbit  lamps  above, 
Those  burning  children  of  thy  love, 

Shall  fade  from  out  the  vaulted  sky, 
And  sun  and  moon  any  systems  die ; 

Creation  sink  in  rayless  gloom, 

And  night  and  chaos  their  reign  resume, 

Still  wilt  Thou  all  changeless  be, 
God,  Jehovah,  Deity. 


ADMONITION.* 

Where  e'er  the  fetter  has  been  broken, 
Where  e'er  the  bondsman  has  been  freed, 

Where  e'er  a  sentence  has  been  spoken 
In  behalf  of  human  need. 

Whether  on  towering,  snow-capped  mountain, 

Or  in  the  soft  and  flowery  vale, 
Whether  beside  the  gurgling  fountain, 

Or  'long  the  streamlet's  watery  trail. 

Whether  amid  the  leafy  wildness 
Of  Bashan's  sturdy  oaks  and  pines, 

Or  'midst  the  sheen  and  plastic  mildness 
Where  art  presides  and  genius  shines. 

*This  poem  was  delivered  by  the  author  at  the  Freed- 
man's  and  Union  Commission  picnic,  Park  hotel 
grounds,  Alamed,  Tuesday,  May  15,  1866. 


20  BELL'S     POEMS. 

In  grand  effect  they  still  are  living, 
Unblurred  by  age  or  flight  of  time; 

And  unto  earth  are  ever  giving 
Lessons,  wondrous  and  sublime. 

Like  trees  of  fadeless  beauty  growing, 
In  all  their  grand  omnific  pride, 

Whose  fruits  of  life  and  joy  bestowing, 
Have  blest  the  land  and  blest  the  tide. 

Those  noble  acts,  through  all  the  ages 
Have  lived,  all  worthy  to  commend, 

And  the  true  historian's  pages, 

With  such,  shall  glow  'till  time  shall  end. 

For  there's  a  link  that  binds  together 
All  the  peoples  of  this  our  earth, 

A  band  which  nothing  can  dissever, 
The  germ  of  man's  primeval  birth ; 

A  deathless  kinship — a  relation, 

A  brotherhood  that  knows  no  bounds, 

Pervading  earth  in  every  station 
Where  e'er  the  human  form  is  found. 

And  there,  without  regard  to  nation, 
Without  respect  to  birth  or  hue, 

Man  stands  sublime  in  his  creation, 
Begirt  with  freedom  as  his  due. 

The  ox  and  yoke  have  som^  relation, 
As  do  the  horse  and  curbing  rein. 

But  in  the  day  of  man's  formation 
He  was  not  fashioned  for  the  chain. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  21 

And  nowhere,  save  through  base  perversion 
Of  the  grand  "wherefore"  he  was  made, 

Has  dark  presumption's  foul  coercion 
E'er  dared  his  freedom  to  invade. 

That  freedom  which  to  him  was  given 
Ere  Eden's  first-born  rose  had  died, 

Or  sin  the  human  heart  had  riven, 
Or  man  his  Maker  had  defied. 

Given,  and  with  it  came  dominion 
O'er  all  the  fish  that  throng  the  sea, 

O'er  all  the  birds  of  downy  pinion, 
O'er  all  the  prowling  beasts  of  prey; 

And  o'er  the  cattle  wildly  roving, 

And  over  every  creeping  thing ; 
And  o'er  the  earth  with  God's  approving 

Smile,  man  was  crowned  Creation's  king. 

And  yet,  in  all  this  vast  arrangement, 

In  all  the  amplitude  of  plan, 
No  grant  is  found  for  the  estrangement 

Whereby  man  lords  it  over  man. 

"I  am  the  Lord!"  said  the  Eternal. 

"Worship  thou  no  God  but  me ! 
Nor  in  thy  memory  hold  supernal 

Aught  of  all  thy  destiny." 

And  wheresoever  $p  invasion 

'Gainst  this  injunction  has  been  planned, 
Heaven  has  made  it  the  occasion 

For  rendering  bare  his  chastening  hand. 


22  BELL'S     POEMS. 

And  oh !  how  dire  the  retributions 

Which  have  followed  evermore, 
Intestine   wars   and   revolutions 

Have  drenched  the  earth  with  human  gore. 

Egypt,  and  Greece,  and  Rome,  and  Carthage, 
This  heaven  injunction  set  at  naught, 

And  where  are  they  ?    The  merest  vestige 
Remains  of  all  they  proudly  wrought. 

Those  rock-bound  cities  whose  proud  basis 
Seemed  all  impervious  to  decay, 

Time's  mighty  besum,  that  erases 
The  pride  of  man,  has  swept  away. 

Nor  has  our  birth-land  been  excepted, 
Her  hundred  fields  all  bathed  in  blood, 

Bear  the  impress  of  truth  rejected, 
And  scourgings  of  an  angry  God. 

The  chastenings  of  a  God  whose  justice 
And  fearful  judgments  move  apace, 

And  faithful  ever  in  their  office 
To  vindicate  an  injured  race. 

Beware !  if  God  has  built  this  nation, 

All  its  constituents  are  good 
And  needful  to  its  preservation, 

Whether  they  be  stone  or  wood. 

We  may  not  comprehend  the  structure 

In  full  minutia  and  design, 
Nor  trace  its  varied  architecture 

In  arris,  groove,  and  curve,  and  line. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  23 

Be  faithful   and  the  great  Grand  Master 
Will  on  his  trestle-board  make  plain 

All  that's  obtuse,  but  no  whit  faster 
Than  'twere  needful  to  explain. 

But,  we'll  not  pain  the  ear  by  telling 
Of  all  the  wrongs  they  have  endured, 

Of  all  the  brutal,  fiend-impelling 

Outrage,  to  which  they've  been  inured. 

No,  these  shall  form  their  own  dark  story, 
The  which,  like  spectres  from  the  dust, 

Shall  haunt  this  nation,  bruised  and  gory, 
Till  all  her  laws  are  pure  and  just. 

Till  there  shall  be  no  class  restriction, 
Her  statutes  free  from  every  flaw, 

Her  native  sons  without  distinction, 
Stand  equals  all — before  the  law. 

That  those  from  whom  the  chains  are  falling 

May  be  inspired  with  a  zeal 
Commensurate  with  the  lofty  calling, 

Which  every  patriot  heart  should  feel. 

The  chain,  thank  God !  the  chain  is  broken, 
Its  severed  links  may  do  us  harm; 

But  the  Grand  Fiat  has  been  spoken, 
And  free  forever  is  the  arm. 

Though  free  from  chains,  yet  there  are  thousands 
Poor,  homeless,  clotheless  and  unfed, 

And  these,  in  praying  us  to  aid  them, 
They  plead  the  merits  of  their  dead. 


24  BELL'S     POEMS. 

They  plead  their  feeless  toil  and  labor, 
Conducive  to  this  nation's  worth, 

Whereby  she  stands  today  a  neighbor, 
Courted  by  all  the  realms  of  earth. 

And  they  plead  the  noble  daring 

Of  their  two  hundred  thousand  brave 

Warriors,   who  with  manly  bearing 
Went  forth,  a  struggling  land  to  save. 

And  hence,  their  deathless  claim  upon  us, 
Claims  such  as   we  can  ne'er   forego; 

Ay,  claims  that  truth  doth  urge  upon  us, 
The  just  assuagement  of  their  woe. 

Though  poor  they  be,  and  very  many, 
Their  care  and  keeping's  in  our  hands, 

The  rich  man's  pound,  the  poor  man's  penny, 
If  not  withheld  when  need  demands. 

But  freely  tendered  and  with  kindness, 
To  these,  the  long  and  sore  oppressed, 

Know  that  our  land  with  heaven's  benignness, 
In  rich  abundance  shall  be  blest. 

Though  poor  they  be,  yet  their  condition 
And  of  its  wherefore,  know  we  all, 

We  know  the  base  of  their  petition, 
The  truth  and  justness  of  their  call. 

And  if  we  fail  in  our  high  station, 

And  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  their  cry, 
And  death  remove  them  through  starvation, 

Know  we  that  God,  the  God  Most  High, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  25 

Will  charge  to  us  the  "deep  damnation" 

Of  their  death  so  premature ; 
And  we  shall  perish  as  a  nation, 

As  sure  as  truth  and  heaven  are  pure. 

But  since  a  far  more  righteous  era 
Has  dawned  upon  our  erring  land, 

And  one  whose  morning  sun  shines  clearer 
Than  when  it  shone  upon  the  brand. 

Therefore,  in  view  of  all  the  sorrows ; 

In  view  of  all  the  grief  and  pain; 
In  view  of  all  the  nameless  horrors, 

Foul  emanations  of  the  chain. 

O  let  us  toil  with  might  unceasing 
Until  the  land  which  gave  us  birth, 

Whose  glorious  sunlight  is  increasing, 
Becomes  the  flower  of  all  the  earth. 

Until  beneath  her  spreading  pinions, 
And  outstretched  folds  of  liberty, 

Men  of  all  nations  and  dominions 
Shall  dwell  in  peace  and  unity. 

To  this  great  end,  then,  let  us  labor, 

Knowing  the  fruits  of  our  employ, 
Shall  raise  up  many  a  prostrate  neighbor, 

And  fill  their  grateful  hearts  with  joy. 

And  then  the  "Union  Aid  Commission," 

Whose  worthy  object  is  to  bless 
And  change  the  hapless,  sad  condition 

Of  all  the  sons  of  wretchedness, 


26  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Shall  in  its  mission  work  a  marvel, 
In  seeking  out  the  passing  poor, 

Of  roofless  cabin,  hut  and  hovel, 
And  blessings  leave  at  every  door. 

O  wondrous  mission,  high  and  holy ! 

Never  is  labor  so  sublime 
As  when  it  seeks  to  lift  the  lowly, 

Without  regard  to  class   or  clime, 

And  thus  forgeteth  self  for  others, 
And  labors  for  a  common  good, 

Regarding  all  mankind  as  brothers, 
And  earth  as  one  great  neighborhood. 

God  bless  that  mission !  may  it  prosper 
And  spread  its  wings  o'er  land  and  seas, 

Till  like  the  gentle  dews  of  vesper, 
Its  joys  are  felt  in  every  breeze. 


THE  BLACK  MAN'S  WRONGS. 

Breathe  softly  on  my  harp,  O  Muse! 

In  gentle  strains  now  clothe  its  songs, 
And  thy  inspiring  force  infuse, 

While  singing  of  the  black  man's  wrongs. 

Wrongs  that  defy  the  painter's  skill, 
Nor  can  the  tongue  e'er  tell  them  o'er, 

They  seem  at  first  a  tiny  rill, 
And  then  a  sea  without  a  shore. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  27 

But  here  the  feelings  of  the  soul 

Defy  the  language  of  the  tongue. 
Therefore  if  we  in  part  unroll 

The  black  man's  wrongs,  our  task  is  done. 

First  view  him  in  the  Torrid  Zone, 

Sporting  amid  luxurious  groves 
Where  nature  delveth  all  alone, 

And  man  in  search  of  pleasure  roves. 

While  there  his  every  meal  was  spread 
By  genial  nature's  bounteous  hand, 

Where  he  from  childhood's  morn  had  fed, 
With  all  her  gifts  at  his  command. 

At  noon  beneath  the  spreading  palm, 
Or  prostrate  in  some  shady  bower, 

His  soul  inhaled  the  fragrant  balm, 

By  zephyrs  brought  from  fruit  and  flower. 

No  raging  sea  of  sorrow  there 

Had  e'er  their  muddy  billow  swept, 

Over  his  soul's  instilling  fear, 

Nor  had  the  man  of  pleasure  wept. 

But  alas !  this  home  was  entered, 

Entered  by  Christians  wise  and  bold; 

Christians,  whose  great  heart  was  centered 
On  their  nation's  god  of  gold. 

By  Christians  he  was  borne  away, 

In  fetters  o'er  the  trackless  main, 
To  where  the  gospel's  blaze  of  day 

Looks  smilingly  on  blood  and  pain. 


28  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Then  begins  a  tale  of  weeping, 

Of  rapine  and  of  woe, 
Only  known  to  him  that's  keeping 

The  record  of  man's  acts  below. 

For  since  he  crossed  the  rolling  flood, 
And  landed  on  Virginia's  shore, 

His  path  presents  a  scene  of  blood 
Unknown  to  history's  page  of  yore. 

His  dearest  friends  are  crushed  and  torn 

Asunder,  ne'er  to  meet  again. 
Fettered  and  branded,  gazed  and  borne 

Where  moral  death  and  darkness  reigned. 

Their  wailing  cries  afflict  the  ear, 

Their  groans  and  sighs  so  pain  the  heart, 

Till  often  the  unconscious  tear 

For  these  poor  hapless,  sad  ones  start. 

'Tis  not  in  mortal  man  to  paint 

The  damning  scenes  transacted  there, 

At  thought  of  which  the  heart  grows  faint 
And  clouds  the  brow  with  dark  despair. 

Were  all  the  gags,  bolts,  bars  and  locks, 

The  thumbscrews,  handcuffs  and  the  chain, 

The  branding-iron  and  the  stocks 
That  have  increased  the  Afric's  pain, 

Piled  up  by  skillful  smith  or  mason 
With  care  in  one  great  concave  heap, 

Those  gory  gyves  would  form  a  basin 
Unnumbered  fathoms  wide  and  deep. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  29 

Could  all  their  blood  and  tears  alone 

Flow  in  this  basin,  deep  and  wide, 
The  proudest  ship  the  world  hath  known 

Could  on  that  basin's  bosom  ride. 

And  then,  could  all  their  groans  and  sighs, 
Their  anguished  waitings  of  despair, 

But  freight  that  ship,  just  where  she  lies, 
'Twould  sink  that  mammoth  vessel  there. 

Their  blood  and  tears  are  treasured  up 

Where  all  their  sighs  and  groans  are  stored, 

And  will  from  retribution's  cup 
Upon  this  guilty  land  be  poured. 

America,  where  is  thy  blush  ? 

Or,  is  thy  very  heart  of  stone? 
Will  not  thy  millions  cease  to  crush 

The  sable  outraged  few  that  groan? 

Should  they,  because  their  skins  are  dark, 

Forever  wear  the  galling  chain  ? 
Has  hope  for  them  no  cheering  spark 

That  wrong  will  one  day  cease  to  reign  ? 

Thou  great  Goliath,  stay  thy  frown ! 

Boast  not  thyself  in  thy  great  strength, 
The  brooklet's  stone  may  bring  thee  down ! 

Thy  sword  may  clip  thy  head  at  length ! 

Gone  forth,  long  since,  is  the  decree 
That  binds  my  shattered  hopes  in  one, 

Though  I  shall  sleep,  yet  time  will  be, 
What  God  has  spoken,  He  will  have  done. 


30  BELL'S     POEMS. 

"Judgment  is  mine !  I  will  repay !" 
Thus  saith  the  builder  of  the  sky, 

Although  his  judgments  still  delay, 
With  every  sun  they're  drawing  nigh. 

Though  hand  in  hand  the  wicked  join, 
"They  shall  be  punished,"  saith  the  Lord. 

Although  like  floods  their  strength  combined, 
They  cannot  stay  the  scourging  cord. 

For  wrongs  and  outrage  shall  surcease; 

The  millions  shall  not  cry  in  vain, 
For  God  the  captive  will  release 

And  break  the  bondsman's  galling  chain. 

From  'neath  the  lash  they  shall  extend 
Their  bleeding,  trembling  hand  to  God, 

And  He  will  to  their  rescue  send 
This  retributive,  chastening  rod. 

For  if  the  blood  of  Abel  slain 
When  crying,  reached  the  Eternal's  ear, 

And  was  avenged  on  guilty  Cain, 

Has  not  this  land  great  cause  to  fear? 

And  if  the  soul  poured  out  in  prayer, 

Together  with  the  falling  tear, 
Be  objects  of  kind  Heaven's  care, 

Then  surely,  retribution's  near. 

And  if  the  darkest  hour  of  night 

Is  just  before  the  misty  dawn, 
Which  flies  away  for  morning  light, 

To  gild  and  glad  the  fragrant  dawn. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  31 

Then  soon  will  freedom's  clarion  burst, 

In  sweet  clear  strains  of  liberty, 
For  of  all  time  this  is  the  worst 

And  darkest  night  of  slavery. 

Then,  lo!  the  sages  of  your  land 

Assembled  in  your  highest  court, 
There  leagued  in  sacrilegious  band, 

Send  to  the  world  the  foul  report, 

Which  hinded  with  the  horse  and  cow, 

And  merchandise  of  every  name, 
All  men  who  wear  the  sable  brow, 

Regardless  of  their  rank  or  fame. 

Because  the  negro's  skin  is  dark 
They  say  he's  made  but  for  a  slave ; 

They  felt  not  this  when  he,  a  mark, 
On  Bunker  Hill  stood  'mid  the  brave; 

Nor  felt  they  thus  when  Attucks  fell 
In  seventeen  seventy — fifth  of  March, 

When  proud  Boston  tolled  a  bell 

That  caused  each  freeman's  brow  to  arch. 

Attucks,  that  brave  and  manly  black, 
Whose  heart's  blood  was  the  first  to  flow 

When  England  made  her  first  attack 
On  Boston's  freemen,  years  ago. 

Then,  then,  was  that  proposal  made 

Which  drew  those  black  men  in  the  field, 

Who  gladly  joined  the  great  crusade 
And  learned  to  die,  but  not  to  yield. 


32  BELL'S     POEMS. 

They  said,  "To  all  who  will  bear  arms, 

And  fight  in  freedom's  holy  war, 
Will  liberty  with  open  arms 

Receive,  and  crown  with  freedom's  star." 

Then  bondmen  threw  their  chains  aside, 
Grasped  a  sword  without  a  sheath, 

And  to  the  siege  rushed  on  with  pride 
To  fight  for  liberty,  or  death. 

And  when  old  England's  ships  of  war 
Came  dashing  through  the  crested  foam, 

Threatening  to  blot  out  every  star 

That  gemmed  and  decked  their  father's  home, 

Then,  black  and  white  men  stood  abreast, 

A  massive  wall  of  living  stone, 
And  on,  with  earthquake  tread,  they  pressed 

And  wrung  this  land  from  England's  throne. 

They,  at  the  siege  of  Lexington, 

At  Bunker  Hill  and  Brandywine, 
At  Monmouth  and  at  Bennington, 

Marched  in  freedom's  battling  line. 

Nor  did  they  sheathe  their  reeking  sword, 

Nor  lay  their  heavy  armor  down, 
Till  the  last  booming  cannon  roared 

That  swept  the  English  from  Yorktown. 

Black  warriors  lay  amid  the  host 

That  slumbers  now  near  Bunker's  heights, 

Who  fell  contending  at  their  post 
For  liberty  and  equal  rights. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  33 

And  on  every  hard-fought  field, 

Where  freedom's  noble  sons  were  slain, 

There,  stretched  beside  their  battle  shield, 
Lay  black  and  white  men  on  the  plain. 

When  pestilential  famine's  breath 

Swept  through  the  camp  at  Valley  Forge, 

There  black  and  white  men  slept  in  death, 
And  gentle  Schuylkill  sang  their  dirge. 

In  days  of  yore,  when  carnage  stared 

This  then  great  nation  in  the  face, 
Then  blacks,  as  men  they  did  regard, 

And  classed  them  with  the  human  race. 

But  now  they  have  no  wars  to  fight, 

No  "Independence"  to  be  won ; 
Sweet,  smiling  peace  veils  Bunker's  heights, 

And  all  their  battling  work  is  done. 

Now  from  this  nation's  hall  of  state 
Comes  Roger  Tanney's  vile  desire, 

Composed  of  all  the  pith  and  hate 
Of  that  dark  land  of  slavery. 

With  him  this  guilty  land  unites 

In  trampling  down  the  wronged  and  wrecked, 
By  claiming  Negroes  have  no  rights 

That  bind  the  white  man  to  respect. 

And  thus,  the  men  whose  father's  fought, 

Of  tyranny  this  land  to  rid, 
They  crushed  to  earth  without  a  thought 

Of  the  great  deeds  their  father's  did. 


34  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Alas !  are  there  no  meeds  of  praise 
For  freedom's  heroes  who  have  died, 

Who  bore  the  burden  in  those  days 

When  bravest  men's  brave  hearts  were  tried? 

Is  gratitude  forever  dead 

If  not,  would  they  thus  destroy 
The  men  whose  father's  fought  and  bled 

For  blessings  that  they  now  enjoy? 

Look  on  the  face  of  men  like  Ward, 
Day,  Douglas,  Pennington,  and  then 

Tell  me  whether  these  should  herd 
With  beasts  of  burden,  or  with  men  ? 

Why  not  in  view  of  all  the  lights 

That  mirror  forth  the  black  man's  wrongs, 

Extend  to  them  those  sacred  rights 
That  justly  to  a  man  belongs? 

They  say  he's  veiled  in  sable  hues, 
And  hence,  with  them  of  sinners  chief, 

They're  more  fastidious  than  the  Jews, 
Who  hung  the  Christ  and  spared  the  thief. 

Consistency,  spread,  spread  thy  wings ! 

Fly!  fly!  thou  hast  no  mission  here! 
Fly  to  the  land  of  pagan  kings 

And  unfurl  thy  bright  credentials  there. 

Thou  hast  no  mission  in  a  land 

Where  man  is  crushed  for  being  black ; 

As  well  go  preach  among  the  damned, 
Or  sing  songs  to  a  maniac ! 


BELL'S     POEMS.  35 

But,  oh,  how  long,  great  God !  how  long, 
Shall  this  sad  state  of  things  remain? 

How  long  shall  right  succumb  to  wrong? 
How  long  shall  justice  plead  in  vain? 

How  long!    Oh,  may  we  live  to  see 

That  natal  day  of  jubilee, 
When  every  fetter  shall -be  riven, 

And  every  heart  praise  God  in  heaven. 


THE  DAWN   OF   FREEDOM.* 

When  summer's  hot  and  sultry  rays 
Are  burdening  our  summer  days, 
And  men  and  beast  are  sore  oppress'd, 
And  vainly  sigh  and  pant  for  rest ; 
Rest  from  the  turbid  cares  of  life, 
Their  wild  convulsions  and  its  strife — 
Then  something  whispers  in  our  ear, 
And  tells  us  of  a  covert  near; 
A  quiet,  soft  and  cool  retreat, 
Where  morn  and  evening  dew  drops  meet; 
Where  Nature  in  her  gorgeous  dress, 
Stands  forth  in  all  her  loveliness ; 
And  where  the  gentle  zephyrs  play, 
And  sport  with  leaflets  all  the  day: 

*Delivered  at  River  Park,  Toledo,  August  3,  1868, 
at  the  grand  festival  in  commemoration  of  the  abolition 
of  slavery  in  the  British  West  India  Isles. 


36  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Oh !  who  would  not  for  such  a  scene 

Of  artless  beauty,  native  sheen, 

Turn  from  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 

And  from  the  city's  noxious  fen, 

And  hie  to  some  sequestered  nook, 

Some  peaceful  dell  beside  the  brook, 

Or  bask  within  the  ample  shade 

Of  some  proud  monarch  of  the  glade, 

Where  every  passing  breath  of  air, 

Comes  fraught  with  odors  rich  and  rare ; 

Though  housed  beneath  this  sylvan  "bower, 

Where  SOL'S  hot  rays  lose  half  their  power, 

And  where  the  green  sward  at  our  feet, 

Invites  us  to  an  humble  seat? 

Yet  come  we  not  from  homes  afar, 

By  coach  and  boat  and  flying  car, 

These  native  scenes  to  eulogize, 

How  much  soe'er  their  wealth  we  prize — 

'Tis  not  of  thee  my  native  land, 

Nor  of  thy  triple  folds  so  bright, 
Nor  of  thy  legions  proud  and  grand, 

That  slew  oppression  in  the  fight. 
'Tis  not  of  thee,  though  worthy  them, 
Of  many  a  song  and  plighted  vow. 
'Tis  not  of  thee  that  we  have  ta'en, 
Our  harp  to  wake  its  humble  strain ; 
But  of  a  land  and  far  away, 

Bathed  by  the  ever  restless  sea — 
A  land  where  freedom's  sons  to-day, 

Are  met  in  gladsome  jubilee. 
With  them  we  would  commemorate 

An  epoch  in  the  march  of  years, 
An  epoch  ever  proud  and  great, 

The  chief  of  freedom's  pioneers. 
A  day  that  saw  a  million  chains 

Fall  from  a  million  shackled  limbs, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  37 

And  heard  a  million  glad  refrains, 

Of  mingled  shouts  and  prayers  and  hymns. 
A  day  that  saw  a  million  men 

Stand  up  in  God's  pure  sunlight  free, 
Who  never  in  all  their  lives  till  then, 

Had  breathed  one  breath  of  liberty. 
The  driver's  horn,  at  early  morn, 

Had  bid  them  to  their  task  repair, 
Where  oft  the  lash,  and  many  a  gash 

Was  waiting  their  arrival  there. 
And  thus  they  had  from  youth  to  age, 

And  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb, 
Been  driven  forth  from  stage  to  stage, 

Through  moral  night  and  mental  gloom. 
The  day  that  saw  their  fetters  riven — 

The  day  that  saw  their  gloom  depart, 
And  heard  their  prayers  and  thank  shouts  given, 

To  freedom's  God  fresh  from  the  heart. 
They've  met  to-day  to  celebrate, 

And  while  they  sing  our  songs  shall  rise, 
And  bowing,  we  shall  venerate 

A  common  parent  in  the  skies. 
Hail !  hail !  glad  day,  thy  blest  return, 

We  greet  with  prayer  and  speech  and  song, 
And  while  from  eulogies  full  urn, 

We  drink  to  thee,  march  proudly  on. 
March  proudly  on  as  heretofore, 

Thou  Black  man's  borrowed  day  of  joy, 
For  long  our  native  land  was  poor, 

Too  poor  to  yield  such  grand  employ; 
Columbia  had  her  many  days 

Of  frolic,  sport  and  joy,  and  glee 
But  none  of  universal  praise — 

No  soul-inspiring  jubilee — 
No  day  on  which  from  palace  dome, 

And  from  the  lowly  thatched-roof  tent, 


38  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Would  mutual  heartfelt  greetings  come, 

Memorial  of  some  grand  event. 
She  had  her  Independence  day, 

But  what  was  July's  Fourth  to  him 
Whose  class  and  kind  and  kindred  lay, 

All  fetter-bound  in  mind  and  limb ; 
And  what  the  pilgrim's  yearly  feast, 

And  what  the  birth  of  Washington, 
To   him    whose    grievous    bonds    increased 

With  each  new  day's  unfolding  sun? 
He  had  no  day — there  was  not  one 

Of  all  the  days  that  formed  the  year, 
Which  did  not  point  to  wrongs  begun, 

And  oft  beguile  him  of  a  tear. 
And  thus  ten  score  of  years  passed  by, 

And  yet  no  star  of  hope  arose — 
No  rainbow  arched  his  gloomy  sky, 

Nor  respite  offered  to  his  woes. 
Hence,  when  at  length  the  British  Isles, 

Burst  forth  in  shouts  of  liberty, 
He  set  at  naught  a  thousand  miles, 

And  joined  them  in  their  jubilee. 
Glad  but  to  know  on  God's  green  earth, 

One  spot  was  consecrate  and  free, 
Where  Truth  and  right  had  given  birth, 

Unto  a  black  man's  jubilee! 
Though  subjects  of  another  land, 

And  dwellers  'mid  a  tropic  sea, 
Yet  they,  like  him,  had  worn  the  brand, 

And  now  were  what  he  longed  to  be. 
And  in  that  act  he  faintly  scan'  d 

The  outstretched  arms  of  Deity ; 
Extending  t'ward  his  native  land, 

The  golden  wand  of  Liberty, 
And  dimly  saw  four  million  chains, 

In  broken  wild  disorder  lay. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  39 

And  Slavery's  blight  with  all  its  stains, 

Banished  his  native  land  for  aye — 
Hence,  when  upon  the  wheels  of  time, 

The  glorious  First  would  roll  its  round, 
His  gladsome  notes  with  theirs  would  chime, 

And  cause  the  valleys  to  resound — 
In  honor  of  that  day  and  deed 
When  Briton's  swarthy  sons  were  freed — 
That  day  when  Justice  wrenched  from  Might 

The  keys  of  power  so  long  detained; 
And  clothed  on  man  his  every  right, 

Which  foul  oppression' had  restrained. 
That  day,  when,  after  twenty  years' 

Persistence,  pleading  and  appeal, 
Midst  all  the  scorn  and  taunt  and  jeers 

That  selfish  bigots  dare  reveal — 
When  those  who  pleaded  had  grown  gray, 
And  many,  alas !  had  passed  away- 
Passed  away,  and  left  undone 
The  work  their  noble  hearts  begun. 
But  Wilberforce — long  live  his  name ! 
With  trembling  voice,  still  pressed  his  claim 
In  Parliament,  in  Court,  or  Hall; 
His  theme  was,  LIBERTY  FOR  ALL ! 
He  claimed  that  Briton  had  no  right 
To  suffer  man,  nor  black  nor  white, 
To  wear  perforce  a  slavish  chain 
Within  her  realm,  by  land  or  main 
That  such  too  long  had  been  the  case. 
And  even  then,  to  her  disgrace, 
A  group  of  Isles,  far  out  from  land, 
And  sheltering  'neath  her  own  command, 
Were  pouring  forth  a  piteous  wail 
On  every  breeze  and  passing  gale. 
His  voice  at  length  Britannia  heard, 
And  lo !  her  mighty  heart  was  stirred — 


40  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Stirred  for  the  tale  so  often  told, 
And  unto  thousands  had  grown  old, 
Fell  for  the  first  time  on  her  ear, 
And  from  her  heart  compelled  a  tear — 
Compelled  a  tear  for  the  man  enchained — 
Compelled  a  tear  for  the  sin  which  stained 
The  proud  escutcheon  of  her  land, 
And  stamped  it  with  a  slaver's  brand. 
Then  swiftly  went  an  edict  forth, 
Of  grave  importance,  matchless  worth ; 
Close  followed  by  that  proud  decree 
Which  swept  the  land  and  swept  the  sea, 
Where'er  the  British  flag  unfurled 
Throughout  the  regions  of  the  world, 
And  there  established  in  the  name 
Of  Briton's  throne,  of  Britain's  fame, 
Upon  the  purest,  broadest  plan, 
ETERNAL  LIBERTY  FOR  MAN ! 
Then  Freedom's  joyous  angel  flew 

With  lightning  speed  o'er  land  and  wave, 
And  loud  her  clarion  trumpet  blew, 

And  woke  to  life  each  panting  slave. 
Woke  them  to  life?    They  did  not  sleep, 

But  there  in  anxious  silence  stood, 
Waiting  the  welcome  sound  to  sweep 

Athwart  Atlantic's  briny  flood. 
And  when  the  sound  fell  on  their  ear, 
They  laughed,  they  wept,  they  knelt  in  prayer ; 
And  rising  from  their  bended  knees, 
They  sang  in  joyous  ecstacies, 
Till  hill  and  vale  and  distant  plain 
Gave  back  the  gladsome  sound  again. 
Oh !  for  a  Raphael's  hand  to  draw 

The  matchless  grandeur  of  that  sight, 
That  earth  might  see  as  angels  saw 

From  off  the  parapets  of  light; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  41 

For  shining  ones  of  heavenly  birth 

Bent  o'er  the  jasper  walls  on  high, 
And  caught  the  jubilant  songs  of  earth 

And  bore  them  upward  to  the  sky ; 
And  Heaven  gave  audience  to  the  strain 

Of  those  fair  minstrels  as  they  sang, 
Gathering  up  the  glad  refrain 

With  which  the  hills  and  valleys  rang, 
And  sending  them  forever  on, 

And  on,  and  on,  eternally ; 
For  Heaven  itself  can  boast  no  song 

Of  sweeter  strain  than  Liberty. 
The  heart  with  exultation  glows, 

Discanting  on  the  joyous  theme 
Of  broken  chains  and  buried  woes — 

'Twere  glorious,  though  'twere  but  a  dream. 
But  since  it  is  a  truth  sublime, 

On  history's  page  inscribed  as  such, 
And  brightening  with  the  march  of  time, 

We  cannot  say  in  praise  too  much. 
We  cannot  laud  the  truth  too  high, 

Nor  praise  too  much  the  noble  deed ; 
Nor  can  we  brand  too  deep  the  lie 

Where  innocence  is  caused  to  bleed 
Nor  can  we  say  too  much  in  praise 

Of  Britain's  bloodless  victory; 
Nor  of  the  glow  and  halo  blaze 

Which  circling  INDIA'S  JUBILEE, 
When  Freedom  waved  her  wand  and  spoke, 
And  lo !  a  million  chains  were  broke. 
No  weary  interregnum  lay 
'Twixt  Slavery's  night  and  Freedom's  day ; 
But  when  their  fetters  fell  to  earth, 
'Twas  followed  by  a  very  birth. 
And  in  the  change  which  there  began, 
Stood  up  a  Briton  and  a  man — 


42  BELL'S     POEMS. 

A  Briton,  in  fact,  in  every  sense, 

His  new  creation  to  commence. 

Though  great  as  was  this  noble  deed, 

Whereby  a  million  souls  were  freed, 

And  a  million  Britons  made 

Of  men  whom  crime  had  long  betrayed. 

Yet  'twas  no  action  based  upon 

Some  worthy  deed  these  may  have  done — 

Some  service  rendered  in  a  time 

Of  revolution,  blood  and  crime. 

No,  these  had  no  such  claims  to  press — 

Their  only  plea  was  their  distress; 

They  ne'er  had  fought  'gainst  Scot  or  Dane, 

That  British  freedom  might  obtain ; 

Nor  had  they  in  dread  peril's  hour, 

When  bravest  hearts  were  wont  to  cower, 

Been  called  to  take  a  patriot's  stand 

And  quell  the  treason  of  the  land. 

Yet,  when  their  liberties  were  given 

'Twas  like  the  genial  rays  of  heaven — 

So  pure,  so  just — no  rights  denied; 

'Twas  Freedom,  broad,  unqualified. 

Yes,  Freedom  in  its  broadest  sense, 

Of  unrestrained  significance ; 

No  force  work  that — no  soulless  cheat; 

But  thorough,  once  done  and  complete ! 

In  this,  Britannia's  proudest  act, 

The  world  beheld  a  noble  fact ; 

They  saw  what  truth  had  long  required — 

Humanity  had  long  desired — 

They  saw  it,  and  they  understood, 

For  Britain  did  it  as  she  should ; 

She  broke  the  yoke,  banished  the  chain, 

And  left  no  link  thereof  remain ! 

No,  not  in  all  her  broad  spread  land 

Left  she  a  relic  of  the  brand ! 


BELL'S     POEMS.  43 

But  let  us  here  a  question  press : 

Could  she,  in  justice,  have  done  less 

Could  she  a  single  right  suppress 

And  not  have  made  a  mockery 

Of  all  her  towers  of  Liberty? 

Would  not  the  whole,  from  base  to  dome, 

Become  the  meanest  cheat,  a  sham,  a  gnome 

Whereon  the  finger  of  disdain 

Might  trace  the  link-marks  of  the  chain? 

Though  men  may  prate  of  Blacks  and  Whites, 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  halving  rights! 

All  partial  justice  is  unjust, 

And  merits  man's  profound  distrust! 

In  truth  there  is  no  safety  short 

Of  freedom's  unrestrained  resort ; 

All  less  than  this  is  tyranny — 

All  more  than  that  is  bigotry. 

The  principle  that  dare  withold 

The  least  known  rights,  on  growing  bold 

Would  grind  the  subject  to  a  brute 

And  e'en  the  claim  to  life  dispute, 

Despite  all  vain  prerogatives ! 

Despite  the  fame  which  power  gives  — 

Despite  the  verdict  of  the  throng. 

What  e'er  curtails  a  right  is  wrong 

And  quite  as  wrong  in  temperate  zone 

As  'twere  beneath  a  tropic  sky; 
'Neath  a  Republic  or  a  Throne 

'Twere  but  the  same,  a  heartless  lie ! 
'Gainst  which  in  Truth  all  conquering  might 
The  brave  should  arm  themselves  and  fight 
For  manhood,  self-hood  and  the  right, 
Valiant  and  fearless,  though  all  alone, 
Knowing  that  if  they  battle  on, 
That  in  the  future  ever  near 
To  those  who  fight,  and  trust  and  fear, 


44  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Success  will  crown  their  work  of  love, 
And  God,  in  smiling  from  above, 
Will  say,  "Well  done,  faithful  and  true, 
A  crown  of  stars  and  a  robe's  thy  due!" 
Now  cast  your  eyes  o'er  this  fair  land, 

Where  hopes  and  fears  alternate  rise, 
Where  long  the  demon  of  the  brand 

Stalked  boldly  forth  in  native  guise. 
Here,  where  in  opulence  he  sat, 

And  waved  his  ebon  rod  of  might, 
And  waved  it  where  our  rulers  met, 

And  many  trembled  at  the  sight 
Their  trembling  fed  his  arrogance 

And  flattered  his  ambitious  dream, 
Till  puffed  with  vain  intolerance, 

He  dared  aspire  to  rule  supreme, 
And  seized  the  dictatorial  chair — 

Blandished  the  weapons  of  his  power, 
And  by  his  own  vain  greatness  swore 

To  rule  or  ruin  from  that  hour. 
Then  rose  the  legions  of  the  North 

In  all  their  majesty  and  might, 
And  'gainst  his  minions  and  the  South 

Went  forth  to  battle  and  to  fight ; 
And  after  much  of  wasted  life, 

Attended  by  a  fearful  cost, 
The  South,  o'ercome,  gave  up  the  strife, 

And  all  her  hopes  as  staked  and  lost. 
Had  then  this  land  her  duty  done, 

In  justice  and  without  delay, 
There  would  have  been  beneath  the  sun 

No  land  so  free  as  this  today. 
Not  only  would  the  chain  be  broke, 

But  veil  be  rent  and  wall  removed, 
And  all  that  would  the  taunt  provoke 

In  simple  justice  disapprove 


BELL'S     POEMS.  45 

All  the  base  relics  of  the  night, 

Of  barbarism's  foulsome  reign ; 
We  should  have  banished  at  the  sight 

Of  reason's  torch  and  freedom's  train, 
For  there's  no  spot  where  in  its  pride 

Yon  tri-hued  starry  flag  doth  wave, 
That  manhood's  claims  should  be  denied, 

Or  rights  withheld  the  recent  slave. 
The  yester  bondsman  must  be  made 

Not  only  part,  but  wholly  free : 
There  must  not  live  a  single  shade 

To  dim  his  manhood's  liberty; 
When  such  obtains,  throughout  the  land, 

Then  shall  this  gladsome  song  be  sung 
By  myriad  voices  proud  and  grand, 

The  aged  mingling  with  the  young: 
"The  long  black  night  of  bondage, 

With  all  its  fiendish  train, 
Of  nameless  wrongs  and  outrage, 

At  length  has  ceased  to  reign ; 
And  Freedom  has  arisen, 

And  gone  forth  in  her  might, 
Nor  left  a  slavish  prison 

Her  glorious  name  to  blight ; 
And  chains  that  were  enthralling, 

The  friendless  and  the  poor, 
And  yokes  that  were  so  galling. 

Have  changed  to  molten  ore, 
And  o'er  our  mighty  nation 

Now  and  forever  free, 
Floats  proud  in  exultation, 

Our  Bird  of  Liberty. 
Throw  out  your  starry  banners, 

And  let  them  float  the  gale, 
Sweeping  our  broad  Savannas, 

With  freedom  in  their  trail — 


46  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Out,  out !  on  every  flag-staff, 

Or  low  or  towering  grand, 
Out  and  let  the  welkin  laugh 

In  honor  of  our  land ; 
And  you,  ye  lofty  mountains, 

And  gorgeous  vales  profound, 
Where  gush  forth  crystal  fountains, 

Your  gladsome  notes  resound ; 
And  lake  and  flowing  river, 

And  streamlets  everywhere, 
In  ripling  wavelets  quiver 

The  joys  ye  would  declare; 
And  merry  woodland  songsters, 

And  beast  and  lowing  kine, 
And  fish  and  ocean  monster 

Your  varied  notes  combine — 
Then  shall  the  sons  of  gladness, 

Five  millions,  wronged,  arise, 
And  with  the  shouts  of  gladness 

All  nature  vocalize, 
Until  the  hosts  of  Heaven 

Shall  catch  the  joyous  strain, 
Floating  aloft  unriven, 

From  mountain,  vale  and  main ; 
And  by  that  crystal  river, 

And  on  that  glassy  sea, 
Where  harpers  stand  forever, 

Reecho  Liberty ; 
For  O,  there  is  in  earth  or  Heaven 

No  sweeter  note  or  purer  key 
To  mortals  known,  or  angels  given, 

Than  peerless,  chainless  LIBERTY!" 
Now  in  conclusion  e'er  we  lay 

Our  shattered  harp  in  silence  by, 

To  westward  turn  the  mental  eye, 
And  once  more  greet  the  far  away. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  47 

Though  years  have  passed  since  freedom's  morn, 

First  dawned  on  those  glad  Isles  at  sea, 
Yet  there  to-day  is  upward  borne, 

The  grateful  peans  of  the  free — 
To  God,  who  holds  within  his  hands 
The  destiny  of  men  and  lands ; 
The  destiny  of  every  sphere 
In  heaven's  blue  fields  remote  or  near — 
To  Him,  God  of  the  earth  and  skies, 
To-day  their  songs  and  prayers  arise. 
And  thus  we  stretch  our  puny  arm, 

Across  the  broad,  un fathomed  deep, 
With  heart-congratulations  warm, 

For  all  the  free-born  joys  they  reap. 
Long  may  their  Island-home  remain, 

As  now,  beneath  the  fostering  care 
Of  Freedom's  wise  and  glorious  reign, 

Where  each  his  manly  rights  may  share. 
Long  may  the  banner  of  the  free, 
Wave  o'er  them  in  its  purity — 
Pure  as  the  zephyrs  in  their  flight — 
Chaste  as  the  radiant  stars  of  night. 


48  BELL'S     POEMS. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

The  Poet  laments  the  discord  of  his  Harp,  and 
its  disuse,  until  answering  Freedom's  call  he  again 
essays  its  harmony.  He  portrays  the  conflict,  and 
gives  thanks  to  God  for  the  dawning  day  of  Free- 
dom. He  rejoices  that  Columbia  is  free;  he 
eulogizes  the  moral  heroes,  and  describes  how 
America  is  "marching  on"  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
warlike  "Hero  John." 

The  cause  of  this  fratricidal  war  is  next  given, 
and  the  challenge  of  Slavery  to  Liberty.  He 
then  invokes  the  spirits  of  our  "sleeping  sires" 
from  their  "beds  of  dust,"  and  bids  the  nation 
listen  to  their  warning  voices.  He  concludes  by 
prophecying  that  a  glorious  peace  will  be  secured 
when  Liberty  is  inscribed  upon  the  banners  of  the 
Union. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  49 


Emancipation  of  the  slaves  in  the  District  of 

Columbia  and  in  the  British  West 

Indian  Isles* 


Harp  of  my  soul,  though  thou  hast  hung 

Suspended  from  the  willow  bough 
Till  much  distorted,  warped  and  sprung, 

And  discord  reigns  within  thee  now, 
Yet  glad  I  take  thee  thence  again, 

Responsive  to  the  joyous  call 
Which  comes  from  isles  far  o'er  the  main, 

And  from  this  nation's  stately  hall. 

Thy  shattered  chords  I  strive  to  mend, 
That  they  may  no  preventive  be. 

And  all  thy  latent  powers  I'll  bend 
To  chant  one  song  to  Liberty. 

O,  Liberty!  inspiring  theme, 

Thou  innate  boon  from  God  to  man! 

Without  thee  joy  were  but  a  dream, 
And  life — a  drear  and  wretched  span. 

But  with  thee,  every  breeze  that's  given 

Seems  wafted  from  some  sunny  isle ; 
They  swell  the  heart  with  joyous  leaven, 

And  paint  the  cheek  with  pleasure's  smile. 
Oh !  heavenly  boon,  destined  to  be 

This  erring  nation's  honored  guest, 
When  shall  the  blessings  of  the  free 

Pervade  the  millions  now  oppressed? 


50  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Hark,  hark !  what  sounds  are  those  that  sweep 
Thitherward  o'er  the  vasty  deep? 
Louder  by  far  than  aught  before — 
Terrible  as  the  thunder's  roar! 
Lo !  'tis  the  clash  of  Freedom's  stars 
Rushing  on  to  the  field  of  Mars ; 
Rushing  on  with  a  force  unknown — 
Rushing  on  through  the  torrid  zone ; 

Legion's  their  name,  and  in  their  wake 
The  heavens  veil  and  the  mountains  quake, 
And  streamlets,  long  before  run  dry, 
Now  flood  the  land  with  crimson  dye, 
While  'long  their  banks,  o'er  field  and  plain, 
Are  thickly  strewn  the  recent  slain, 
And  from  the  breath  which  they  exhale 
A  rank  miasma  fills  the  vale. 

Thank  God !  a  glorious  dawn  betides 

Oppression's  long  and  rayless  night, 
And  one  that  promise  well  provides 

With  many  a  hoped  for  ray  of  light — 
A  light  that  bids  far  to  extend, 

E'en  to  the  deepest,  darkest  vales, 
And  from  visual  orbits  rend 

All  vile  accumulated  scales. 

For  Liberty,  though  long  enthralled, 

Is  rending  now  each  servile  band, 
And  will,  ere  long,  become  installed 

Proud  monarch  of  this  glorious  land ; 
The  tiny  cloud,  the  promise  star, 

Are  now  above  the  horizon — 
Behold  them,  through  the  ranks  of  war, 

In  graceful  triumph  marching  on. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  51 

Unfurl  your  banners  to  the  breeze — 

Let  Freedom's  tocsin  sound  amain ! 
Until  the  islands  of  the  seas 

Reecho  with  the  glad  refrain: 
Columbia's  free !  Columbia's  free ! 

Her  teeming  streets,  her  vine-clad  groves, 
Are  sacred  now  to  Liberty 

And  God,  where  every  right  approves. 

Thank  God,  the  Capital  is  free ; 

The  slaver's  pen,  the  auction  block, 
And  gory  lash  of  cruelty 

No  more  this  nation's  pride  shall  mock ; 
No  more  within  those  ten  miles  square 

Shall  men  be  bought  and  women  sold, 
Or  infants  sable-hued  and  fair, 

Exchanged  again  for  paltry  gold. 

Today  the  Capital  is  free ! 

And  free  those  halls  where  Adams  stood 
And  plead  for  man's  humanity, 

And  for  a  common  brotherhood; 
Where  Sumner  stood,  whose  world  wide  fame 

And  eloquent  philosophy 
Has  clustered  round  his  deathless  name, 

Bright  laurels  for  eternity ; 

Where  Wilson,  Love  joy,  Wade  and  Hale, 

And  other  lights  of  equal  power, 
Have  stood,  like  warriors  clad  in  mail, 

Before  the  giant  of  this  hour, 
Co-workers  in  a  common  cause, 

Laboring  for  their  country's  weal 
By  just  enactments,  righteous  laws, 

And  burning,  eloquent  appeal ; 


52  BELL'S     POEMS. 

To  whom  we  owe,  and  gladly  bring, 

The  grateful  tributes  of  our  hearts. 
And  while  we  live  to  muse  and  sing, 

These  in  our  songs  shall  claim  their  parts. 
For  now  Columbia's  air  doth  seem 

Much  purer  than  in  days  agone, 
And  now  her  mighty  heart,  I  deem, 

Has  lighter  grown  by  marching  on ! 

Marching  on !  through  blood  and  strife, 
Marching  on!  through  wasted  life, 
Marching  on !  to  the  glorious  day 
When  the  last  foul  brand  is  swept  away. 
Marching  on !  o'er  the  graveless  dead, 
Marching  on !  through  streamlets  red — 
Red  with  the  vain  hearts  ebbing  tide 
Of  rebels  slain  in  their  vaunted  pride. 

Marching  on !  with  a  foot  as  firm 

As  that  which  careless  treads  the  worm, 

With  sword  unsheathed  and  power  to  wield, 

And  a  dauntless  heart  that  will  not  yield. 

Thus  Liberty  goes  marching  on, 

Step  for  step,  with  the  "hero  John !" 

In  whom  oppression  basely  slew 

The  bravest  son  e'er  freedom  knew. 

He  fell — but  Freedom  set  her  price, 
Counting  his  silver  threads  o'er  thrice; 
She  pledged  to  each  and  every  one 
A  heartless  tyrant  sire  or  son, 
But  while  her  lenient  wrath  delayed, 
Still  fiercer  grew  oppression's  raid, 
And  when  denied  the  Chair  of  State, 
He  boldly  donned  the  guise  of  hate. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  53 

And  forthwith  armed  his  minions  all, 
With  rifle,  cannon,  bomb  and  ball, 
And  in  the  frenzy  of  his  ire, 
On  Sumpter  rained  a  storm  of  fire. 
Thus  slavery  threw  the  gauntlet  down, 
And  stripped  it  bare  of  every  guise, 
Then  rent  a  star  from  Freedom's  crown 
And  closed  the  door  of  compromise. 

Though  Liberty  indignant  grew, 

Yet,  with  an  all-forbearing  hand, 
She  strove  to  tame  the  ranting  shrew, 

And  save  the  glory  of  her  land. 
But  no !  a  tyrant's  cup  of  guilt 

Was  now  preparing  to  run  o'er  — 
The  sheathless  swrord,  from  point  to  hilt, 

Must  revel  in  the  purple  gore. 

From  warnings  oft  they'd  nothing  learned, 

In  sin  more  sinful  still  had  grown, 
Till  Heaven's  displeasure  they  have  earned, 

And  lo !  their  blood  must  now  atone. 
Warned  by  all  their  sleeping  sires, 

Whose  lives  were  pledged  'gainst  tyranny, 
Who  taught  beside  their  homestead  fires 

The  dread  results  of  slavery; 

Who  drew  from  reason  living  facts, 

Based  on  the  ever  present  past, 
To  prove  that  sure  destruction  tracks 

Oppression's  train,  however  vast, 
And  floating  down  the  lapse  of  years, 

Their  voice  of  warning  calls  to  us, 
In  tones  expressive  of  their  fears — 

Fears  for  their  country's  future — thus : 


54  BELL'S     POEMS. 

"We  find  within  the  Book  of  Fate 

This  page  of  small  uncertainty : 
At  any  risk,  however  great, 

Ere  long  the  bondmen  will  be  free : 
For  when  the  measure  of  their  grief 

Will  not  contain  another  tear, 
And  bitter  groanings  call  relief, 

Then  surely  God  will  interfere. 

"Beware,  lest  what  ye  deal  to  those, 

At  length  upon  yourselves  recoil — 
The  arm  of  right  will  interpose, 

And  then  the  spoiled  will  reap  the  spoil. 
For  wrong  doth  execute  with  wrong, 

And  surely  will  he  execute, 
Though  retributions  tarry  long — 

Yet  fail  they  never  in  their  fruit. 

"When  we  the  future  contemplate, 

And  then  reflect  that  God  is  just, 
We  tremble  for  our  country's  fate." 

Thus  speak  they  from  their  beds  of  dust. 
Nor  could  they,  even  had  the  cloud 

Which  veils  the  future  from  our  view 
Been  quite  removed,  and  they  allowed 

To  range  beyond,  spoke  aught  more  true. 

What  if  the  dead,  the  noble  dead, 

Keep  watch  above  their  former  state ; 
Would  these  no  spirit-tears  have  shed 

O'er  scenes  enacted  here  of  late? 
Think  you  that  shriek  and  dying  groan 

Arising  from  the  gory  sward, 
Could  sweep  athwart  their  spirit  zone 

And  stir  no  sympathetic  chord  ? 


BELL'S     POEMS.  55 

But  wherefore  this  unmeaning  strife, 
And  wherefore  all  this  waste  of  life  ? 
The  richest  blood  of  northern  veins 
Is  pouring  out  like  heaven's  rains; 
And  still  their  braves  are  rallying  round 
The  stripes  and  stars,  at  the  bugle  sound ; 
But  still  we  press  the  question,  why 
Are  all  these  brave  ones  called  to  die  ? 


Why,  is  the  bristling  bayonet 
Upon  the  death  charged  rifle  set? 
Why  does  the  deafening  cannon's  roar, 
Reverberate  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
And  why  (the  question  still  is  pressed), 
Why  is  the  nation  sore  distressed? 


America !    America ! 

Thine  own  undoing  them  hast  wrought, 
For  all  thy  wrongs  to  Africa 

This  cup  has  fallen  to  thy  lot, 
W^hose  dregs  of  bitterness  shall  last 

Till  thou  acknowledge  God  in  man ; 
Till  thou  undo  thine  iron  grasp, 

And  free  thy  brother  and  his  clan. 

Till  thou  restore  again  the  pledge, 
The  garment,  and  the  golden  wedge; 
Till  Achan,  and  his  latest  kin, 
Without  the  camp  shall  meet  their  sin. 
Till  then,  this  fratricidal  war, 
Which  all  so  justly  should  abhor, 
Will  neither  change  its  wasting  mood, 
Nor  with  a  shallow  truce  conclude. 


56  BELL'S     POEMS. 

No !  no !  there  ne'er  will  come  a  peace, 

Nor  will  this  war  of  brothers  cease, 

While  on  Columbia's  fair  domain, 

A  single  bondsman  clanks  his  chain. 

For  God,  who  works  through  fire  and  sword, 

And  through  the  spirit  of  His  word, 

Has  witnessed  all  their  bitter  grief, 

And  now  has  come  to  their  relief. 

To  hasten  freedom's  glorious  time, 

And  save  in  treasure  and  in  life, 
Count  Hunter's  policy  no  crime ; 

Arm  each  and  all  to  end  the  strife. 
Upon  your  rallying  banner's  write, 

The  magic  words  of  liberty — 
And  thousands,  panting  for  the  fight, 

Will  press  to  war  and  victory. 

Then  will  the  Northern  loyal  blacks, 

Who  anxious  are  to  join  the  fray, 
Soon  buckle  on  their  haversacks, 

And  shoulder  arms,  and  hie  away. 
And  then  the  war  which  bids  to  last 
Through  years  to  come,  will  soon  be  past 
And  rolling  years  shall  but  increase 
In  permanence  our  glorious  peace. 

For  the  land  shall  bloom  when  the  foe  is  slain, 
And  peace,  long  exiled,  shall  return  again ; 
And  the  door  of  Janus  again  shall  close, 
And  the  crimson's  sword  in  its  sheath  repose; 
And  the  galling  chain,  and  yoke  of  the  slave, 
Shall  pollute  no  more  the  home  of  the  brave. 
Till  then  let  us  pray — till  then  let  us  trust 
Ever  in  God,  who  is  faithful  and  just. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  57 


THE  DAY  AND  THE  WAR. 


SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  IMMORTAL 

CAPTAIN  JOHN  BROWN, 

THE  HERO,  SAINT  AND  MARTYR  OF  HARPER'S  FERRY, 

The  following  poem  is  most  respectfully  inscribed, 

by  one  who  loved  him  in  life,  and  in  death 

would  honor  his  memory. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

The  Poet  laments  the  long  years  of  enslave- 
ment of  his  race,  but  rejoices  that  the  Emancipa- 
tion Proclamation  is  the  harbinger  of  the  good 
time  coming,  and  has  at  length  given  him 

"A  fitting  day  to  celebrate." 

He  shows  how  this  wicked  Rebellion,  instituted 
to  perpetuate  Slavery,  will  cause  "the  final  aboli- 
tion" of  the  accursed  institution. — The  Colored 


58  BELL'S     POEMS. 

people  are  incited  to  prove  themselves  worthy  of 
the  position  they  must  assume,  by  patriotism,  for- 
titude and  virtue. 

The  deceitful  policy  of  the  European  Govern- 
ments is  examined  and  criticised — their  jealousy 
of  the  growing  power  of  the  American  Union; 
their  sympathy  with  the  Rebels ;  the  material  aid 
and  comfort  they  render  unto  the  Confederacy, 
and  their  desire  to  effect  the  dismemberment  of 
the  Republic.  England,  remembering  the  loss  of 
the  Colonies,  is  covertly  aiding  the  Rebellion,  and, 
while  professing  neutrality,  is  supplying  them 
with  ships  and  munitions  of  war. 

He  next  sings  of  the  heroism  of  the  colored 
troops — their  deeds  of  valor  at  Milliken's  Bend — 
bravery  of  Miller's  men,  of  which  company  all 
save  one  were  either  slain  or  wounded — and  of 
the  heroic  achievements  of  the  Black  Brigade. 

He  relates  a  vision  of  the  War,  and  portrays 
in  vivid  colors  the  horrors  of  a  battlefield  after 
the  fight.  An  angel  appears,  who  announces  the 
advent  of  Peace.  The  warrior  returns  from  the 
carnage  of  battle ;  his  sword  is  turned  into  a  plow- 
share, his  spear  into  a  reaping-hook,  and  a  "real 
Republic"  is  formed. 

In  conclusion,  he  eulogizes  the  God-approving 
act  of  President  Lincoln  in  issuing  the  great 
Emancipation  Proclamation,  and  predicts  that 
when  posterity  is  enumerating  the  benefactors  of 
mankind,  "great  Lincoln's  name  will  lead  the 
host." 

P.  A.  BELL. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  59 


THE  DAY  AND  THE  WAR. 

Twelve  score  of  years  were  long  to  wait 
A  fitting  day  to  celebrate: 
'Twere  long  upon  one's  native  soil 
A  feeless  drudge  in  pain  to  toil. 
But  Time  that  fashions  and  destroys. 
And  breeds  our  sorrows,  breeds  our  joys, 
Hence  we  at  length  have  come  with  cheer, 
To  greet  the  dawning  of  the  year—- 
The bless'd  return  of  that  glad  day, 
When,  through  Oppression's  gloom,  a  ray 
Of  joy  and  hope  and  freedom  burst, 
Dispelling  that  insatiate  thirst 
Which  anxious  years  of  toil  and  strife 
Had  mingled  with  the  bondman's  life. 

A  fitting  day  for  such  a  deed, 
But  far  more  fit  when  it  shall  lead 
To  the  final  abolition 
Of  the  last  slave's  sad  condition : 
Then  when  the  New  Year  ushers  in, 
A  grand  rejoicing  shall  begin; 
Then  shall  Freedom's  clarion  tone 
Arouse  no  special  class  alone, 
But  all  the  land  its  blast  shall  hear, 
And  hail  with  joy  the  jubilant  year; 
And  maid  and  matron,  youth  and  age, 
Shall  meet  upon  one  common  stage, 
And  Proclamation  Day  shall  be 
A  National  Day  of  Jubilee. 


60  BELL'S     POEMS. 

No  longer  'neath  the  weight  of  years — 
No  longer  merged  in  hopeless  fears — 
Is  now  that  good  time,  long  delayed, 
When  right,  not  might,  shall  all  pervade. 
Drive  hence  despair — no  longer  doubt, 
Since  friends  within  and  foes  without 
Their  might  and  main  conjointly  blend 
To  reach  the  same  great,  glorious  end — 
The  sweeping  from  this  favored  land 
The  last  foul  chain  and  slavish  brand. 

No  longer  need  the  bondman  fear, 
For  lo !  the  good  time's  almost  here, 
And  doubtless  some  beneath  our  voice 
Shall  live  to  hail  it  and  rejoice; 
For  almost  now  the  radiant  sheen 
Of  freedom's  glad  hosts  may  be  seen 
The  ear  can  almost  catch  the  sound, 
The  eye  can  almost  see  them  bound, 
As  thirty  million  voices  rise 
In  grateful  peans  to  the  skies. 

But  of  the  present  we  would  sing, 

And  of  a  land  all  bathed  in  blood— 
A  land  where  plumes  the  eagle's  wing, 

Whose  flaming  banner,  stars  bestud — 
A  land  where  Heaven,  with  bounteous  hand, 

Rich  gifts  hath  strewn  for  mortal  weal, 
Till  vale  and  plain  and  mountain  grand 

Have  each  a  treasure  to  reveal : 
A  land  with  every  varying  clime, 

From  torrid  heat  to  frigid  cold — 
With  natural  scenery  more  sublime 

Than  all  the  world  beside  unfold, 
Where  vine-clad  France  may  find  a  peer, 

And  Venice  an  Italian  sky, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  61 

With  streams  whereon  the  gondolier 

His  feather'd  oar  with  joy  may  ply. 
O,  heaven-blest  and  favored  land, 

Why  are  thy  fruitful  fields  laid  waste? 
W^hy  with  thy  fratricidal  hand 

Hast  thou  thy  beauty  half  defaced? 
WThy  do  the  gods  disdain  thy  prayer? 

And  why  in  thy  deep  bitterness 
Comes  forth  no  heaven-clothed  arm  to  share 

A  part,  and  help  in  the  distress  ? 

Hast  thou  gone  forth  to  reap  at  noon 
And  gather  where  thou  hadst  not  strewn 
Hast  thou  kept  back  the  hireling's  fee 
And  mocked  him  in  his  poverty  ? 
Hast  thou,  because  thy  God  hath  made 
Thy  brother  of  a  different  shade, 
Bound  fast  the  iron  on  his  limb, 
And  made  a  f eeless  drudge  of  him  ? 
Hast  thou,  to  fill  thy  purse  with  gold, 
The  offsprings  of  his  nature  sold? 
And  in  thy  brutal  lust,  beguiled 
His  daughter  and  his  couch  defiled? 

For  all  this  wrong  and  sad  abuse, 
Hast  thou  no  offering  of  excuse? 
No  plea  to  urge  in  thy  defense 
'Gainst  helpless,  outraged  innocence? 
Then  fearful  is  thy  doom  indeed, 
If  guilty  thou  canst  only  plead. 
Thy  sin  is  dark,  and  from  the  law 
No  dint  of  pity  canst  thou  draw. 
If  thou  are  charged,  'twill  hear  thy  suit; 
If  guilty,  swift  to  execute, 
Eye  for  an  eye  and  tooth  for  tooth ; 
Yet,  Oh  forbid  it,  God  of  truth : 


62  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Let  not  thine  arm  in  anger  fall, 

But  hear  a  guilty  nation's  call ; 

And  stay  the  vial  of  wrath  at  hand, 

Pour  not  its  contents  on  the  land ; 

Should  they  the  last  dregs  in  the  cup 

Of  bitterness  be  called  to  sup, 

And  all  the  contents  of  the  vial 

Of  thy  just  wrath  be  poured  the  while, 

With  all  the  tortures  in  reserve, 

'Twould  scarce  be  more  than  they  deserve, 

For  they  have  sinned  'gainst  thee  and  man. 

But  wilt  thou  not,  by  thy  own  plan, 

Bring  them  past  this  sea  of  blood, 

Ere  they  are  buried  'neath  its  flood? 

America!  I  thee  conjure, 
By  all  that's  holy,  just  and  pure, 
To  cleanse  thy  hands  from  Slavery's  stain, 
And  banish  from  thy  soil  the  chain. 
Thou  canst  not  thrive,  while  with  the  sweat 
Of  unpaid  toil  thy  lands  are  wet, 
Nor  canst  thou  hope  for  peace  or  joy 
Till  thou  Oppression  doth  destroy. 

Already  in  the  tented  field 
Are  thy  proud  hosts  that  will  not  yield — 
Already  are  they  sweeping  forth, 
Like  mighty  whirlwinds  from  the  North, 
And  from  the  East  and  West  afar 
With  earthquake  tread  they  press  to  war, 
Until  from  where  Atlantic  raves, 
And  wildly  beats  his  rock-bound  shore, 
To  where  the  calm  Pacific  laves 
A  land  of  fruits  and  shining  oar, 
The  thundering  voice  of  Mars  is  heard. 
And  echoing  vales  repeat  each  word, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  63 

And  mountains  tremble  to  their  base ! 
For  lo !  in  arms  a  mighty  race, 
Of  mighty  genius,  mighty  strength, 
Have  ta'en  the  field  as  foes  at  length, — 
A  nation,  whom  but  yesterday 
The  bands  of  union  joined  in  one, 
Now  clad  in  war's  dread  panoply, 
Their  marshaling  hosts  to  battle  run. 
But  not  as  blind  ambition's  slaves 
Rush  wildly  on  those  breathing  waves: 
Nor  as  the  dread  sirocco's  breath, 
All  indiscriminate  in  death — 
But  they  (as  freemen  should  and  must, 
When  ruthless,  ruffian  hands  assail 
Their  rightful  cause  of  sacred  trust, 
And  'gainst  that  cause  would  fain  prevail), 
Have  seized  the  rifle,  sword  and  spear, 
And  charged  upon  the  foeman  near. 

And  Europe's  clans  all  interest  grew, 
When  North  and  South  their  sabres  drew, 
For  they  had  long  with  jealous  fear 
Marked  this  vast  Republic  here, 
And  watched  its  almost  magic  growth, 
Compared  with  their  dull  rounds  of  sloth ; 
Hence,  when  the  bomb  on  Sumter  fell, 
They  felt  a  half-unconscious  swell 
Of  exultation  flame  the  heart, 
And  inly  hoped  that  bomb  might  part 
The  web  and  woof  which  bound  in  one 
Their  greatest  rival  'neath  the  sun. 
For  where's  the  monarch  that  could  rest 
Secure  beneath  his  royal  crest, 
And  see  a  land  like  this  of  ours — 
Radiant  with  eternal  flowers, 
With  hills  and  vales  of  solid  gold, 


64  BELL'S     POEMS. 

That  centuries  yet  will  scarce  unfold, 
And  holding  out  a  welcome  hand 
To  all  the  subjects  of  his  land, 
And  they  responding  to  the  call 
Like  the  sear'd  foliage  of  the  fall — 
And  feel  no  inward  joy  or  pride 
In  aught  that  promised  to  divide, 
And  e'en  to  tatter'd  fragments  rend, 
The  land  where  all  those  virtues  blend? 
For  scarce  a  wave  that  sweeps  the  sea, 
However  small  or  great  it  be, 
Nor  scarce  a  sail  that  drinks  the  spray, 
But  bears  some  despot's  slave  away. 

Hence  to  the  North  their  word  of  mouth, 
While  heart  and  soul's  been  with  the  South- 
Been  with  the  South  from  first  to  last, 
And  will  be  till  the  war  is  past, 
Despite  non-intervention's  cry, — 
Which,  by-the-way,  a  blacker  lie 
Ne'er  came  from  Pandemonium's  cell 
Nor  from  the  foulest  niche  in  hell, 
Than-  'twere  for  Europe  to  affirm 

That  she  has  wholly  neutral  kept, 
The  while  this  dark  and  fearful  storm 

Of  civil  war  has  o'er  us  swept; 
Not  intervene,  and  still  erect 

Rebel  warships  by  the  score, 
And  give  them  succor,  and  protect 

Upon  her  coast  as  many  more? 
Not  intervene!    Whence  the  supply 

Of  war  munitions  by  the  ton, 
That  sweep  our  blocking  squadrons  by, 

And  into  Southern  harbors  run? 
Not  intervene,  and  'neath  her  dock 

Shelter  a  well-known  privateer — 


BELL'S     POEMS.  65 

And  to  prevent  her  capture,  mock 

With  self-raised  queries  till  she's  clear? 
Not  intervene !  and  yet  propose 

To  recognize  the  South  when  she 
Discards  the  source  of  half  her  woes, 

And  sets  her  long  bound  captives  free  ? 
If  this  non-intervention  is, 

Then  O  may  Jeff  deliver  us : 
For  better  had  we  bow  as  his, 

Than  fall  where  nations  reason  thus. 

All  this  was  done,  but  wonder  not 
The  half-healed  wound  is  ne'er  forgot; 
It  may  assume  perfection's  state 
And  e'en  the  heart  with  joy  elate; 
While  crouched  beneath  a  gauze-like  crest, 
Its  germ  and  root  and  fibres  rest; 
Where  slightest  scratch  or  bruise  or  sprain 
May  wake  them  into  life  again. 

Thus  Britain  wounded  years  before, 
Remembers  still  the  painful  sore, 
And  were  the  time  more  opportune, 
Columbia's  sun  she'd  veil  at  noon. 
She's  envious  of  her  growing  wealth, 
Her  fruitful  fields,  her  joy,  her  health, 
Her  mighty  rivers  grand  and  free, 
Creation's  highways  to  the  sea : 
And  fain  would  sway  her  sceptred  hand, 
And  bring  them  all  'neath  her  command ; 
For  kindred  spirits  there  are  none, 
Twixt  a  Republic  and  a  throne. 

Then  wonder  not  that  Europe's  choice, 
Her  strength  of  purse,  her  strength  of  voice, 
Have'  favored  everv  foul  excess 


66  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Through  which  this  nation  might  grow  less. 
And  that  this  wasting  war  proceed, 
And  to  the  utter  ruin  lead 
Of  this  Republic,  they  have  prayed, 
And  praying  lent  the  South  their  aid ; 
And  hence  the  war  is  raging  still, 
And  the  nation's  good  or  ill 
Hangs  on  the  issue  of  the  fight — 
The  triumph  of  the  wrong  or  right. 

Many  have  been  the  grounds  of  strife 
Where  man  has  sacrificed  his  life, 
And  many  causeless  wars  have  been 
Since  Michael  fought  and  conquered  sin ; 
Yet  many  battles  have  been  fought, 
And  many  lands  that  blood  have  bought, 
Through  wars  that  have  been  justified, 
Where  struggling  thousands  fought  and  died- 
Fought  and  died,  and  were  proud  that  they 
On  the  shrine  of  truth  had  a  life  to  lay ; 
Fought  and  died,  nor  trembling  came 
They  to  the  life-devouring  flame, 
But,  like  Winkleride  of  yore, 
Their  sheathless  breasts  they  bravely  bore. 

For  he  who  battles  for  the  right, 
When  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight 
Doth  feel  a  God-approving  glow, 
Which  bids  defiance  to  the  foe ; 
And  though  he  falls  beside  his  shield, 
He  sleeps  a  victor  on  the  field. 
And  Freedom  is  that  sacred  cause, 

Where  he  that  doth  his  lancet  poise, 
Shall,  living,  'reap  the  world's  applause, 

Or,  dying,  win  unclouded  joys. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  67 

But  now  the  query  to  be  solved 
Is,  shall  the  Union  be  dissolved? 
Shall  this  fair  land  our  fathers  gave 
Ungrudgingly  their  lives  to  save 
From  kingly  rule  and  tyranny, 
Be  rent  in  twain  by  Slavery? 
And  shall  the  line  of  Plymouth  stock — 
Whose  sires  trod  that  hoary  rocjc, 
Which  rendered  sacred  e'en  the  soil 
Whereon  they  after  deign'd  to  toil — 
Allow  this  refuge  of  black  lies, 
Quintessence  of  all  villanies, 
To  rear  thereon  his  demon  throne, 
Or  claim  one  footprint  as  his  own? 

WThat  though  the  dark  and  foulsome  raid 
Of  South  Carolina  should  pervade 
The  whole  entire  South,  and  they, 
Like  hungry  wolves  in  quest  of  prey, 
Rush  down  upon  the  Union  fold, 
Rivaling  e'en  the  Gauls  of  old? 
Shall  we,  because  of  that  dark  raid, 
See  Freedom's  shrine  in  ruins  laid, 
And  her  long-spread  banner  furl'd, 
To  grow  the  butt  of  all  the  world: 
And  passive  keep,  the  while  this  horde, 
From  mountain  height  and  valley  pour'd, 
Ride  rampant  over  field  and  plain, 
Dread  carnage  strewing  in  their  train, 
Until:  they  plant  their  standard  where 
Old  Bunker  rears  his  head  in  air? 

To  gain  this  zenith  of  their  pride, 
Through  human  gore  waste-deep  they'd  ride. 
Waist-deep !  aye,  more — they  love  the  sin, 
And  some  would  brave  it  to  the  chin, 


68  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Could  they  upon  old  Bunker's  mound 
Dole  out  their  man  flesh  by  the  pound ! 
Nor  would  they  with  their  souls  demur, 
E'en  though  the  venal  purchaser 
Should  in  his  fiendish  lust  demand 
The  fairest  daughters  of  the  land; 
Nor  would  they  scruple  as  to  hue, 
But  eyes  of  jet  and  eyes  of  blue, 
•And  fair-brow'd  maids  with  flowing  hair, 
Such  as  Anglo-Saxons  wear, 
Would  grace  as  oft  their  auction-blocks 
As  those  less  fair  with  fleecy  locks. 

But  never !  never !  never,  no ! 
No,  never  while  the  North  winds  blow, 
Shall  vile  oppression  desecrate 
One  foot  of  earth  in  that  old  State ! 
Not  while  the  gallant  Fifty-fourth, 
In  all  the  spirit  of  the  North, 
Stand  pledged  Secession  to  defy, 
Or  in  the  cause  of  Freedom  die ; 
Not  while  a  single  hand  remains 
To  grasp  the  sword  or  touch  the  spring, 
Shall  that  foul  dagon  god  of  chains 
Thither  his  courts  and  altars  bring. 

To  this  audacious  end  they've  bent 
Their  ever-craven,  vulturous  eye, 

Till  now  their  fiendish,  dark  intent, 
Stands  out  before  the  noonday  sky ; 

And  all  equip'd  for  death  and  war, 

With  rifle,  bomb  and  cimeter, 

They  boldly  stand  on  Richmond's  height, 

And  claim  secession  as  a  right. 

But,  whether  right  or  wrong,  still  they 

Have  sworn  no  longer  to  obey 


BELL'S     POEMS.  69 

Edict  sent  or  mandate  given, 
From  any  court  this  side  of  Heaven, 
Except  that  court  in  concert  be 
With  chains  and  endless  slavery. 

At  length  the  war  assumes  a  phase, 
Though  long  apparent,  oft  denied : 

WTe  speak  it  in  the  nation's  praise — 
The  land  they  never  can  divide. 

Therefore  this  fact  should  none  surprise — 

If  Slavery  lives,  the  Union  dies ; 

And  if  the  Union's  e'er  restored, 

vr\vill  be  when  Freedom  is  secured ; 

And  liberty,  man's  rightful  due, 

Is  not  proscribed  by  grade  nor  hue. 

Hence  he  that  would  avert  the  doom, 

And  rescue  from  sepulchral  gloom 

His  freedom,  must,  with  sword  in  hand, 

March  'gainst  the  slavery  of  this  land. 

Then  gird  thy  loins,  for  lo !  thy  course, 
O  brother,  long  oppress 'd  by  force, 
With  stalwart  arm  and  ebon  brow, 
\vas  never  half  so  plain  as  now: 
Nor  half  so  ominously  bright 
With  Hope's  refulgent  beams  of  light— 
For  with  each  deafening  cannon's  roar, 
Thy  hated  chains  grow  less  secure : 
And,  like  the  fumes  of  war,  shall  thev 
Dissolve  ere  long,  and  pass  away. 
Meanwhile,   from  thraldom's  gloomy  slough 
Millions  shall  come  forth  such  as  them, 
And  Fame  a  laurel  wreath  shall  twine 
For  many  a  brow  of  Afric  line. 


70  BELL'S     POEMS. 

But  prate  thou  not  of  liberty, 
While  still  in  shackled  slav.ery 
The  most  remote  of  all  thy  kin 
Bow  down  beneath  its  damning  sin! 
Nor  make  thy  boast  of  English  birth, 
Nor  French  descent,  nor  Celtic  worth; 
This  leave  for  English,  French  or  Dane, 
Whose  kindred  wear  no  galling  chain. 
But  thou,  O  man  of  Afric  hue, 
This  vaunting  spirit  pray  subdue, 
And  bide  thy  time  to  boast  till  he, 
Thy  last  chained  brother,  shall  be  free. 

Not  only  free  from  lash  and  yoke, 
But  free  from  all  that  should  provoke 
The  just,  indignant  wrath  of  those 
Who  now  his  budding  rights  oppose; 
Not  only  free  to  shoulder  arms, 
When  foeman  thick  as  locusts  swarm, 
Securely  wrapped  in  coats  of  mail, 
Seem  almost  certain  to  prevail ; 
Not  only  free  to  pay  a  tax 
To  each  scrip-monger,  who  exacts 
His  hard-earned  dollar  as  a  rule, 
For  purposes  of  State  or  school : 
While  they  the  children  of  his  loins, 
Through  some  base  act  which  hate  enjoins, 
Are  not  allowed  within  the  door 
Where  Wisdom  sits  to  bless  the  poor ! 
Not  only  free  to  tell  the  truth 
Where  Justice,  mocked  at,  sits  forsooth ! 
But  free  from  all  that  should  impair 
The  rights  of  freemen  anywhere ! 

Till  then,  thou  shouldst  not,  must  not  boast, 
But  rather  at  thy  lowly  post, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  71 

With  zeal  and  fortitude  combined, 
Discharge  the  duties  there  assigned. 
Should  struggling  Freedom  call  for  thee, 
Come  forth  with  proud  alacrity ; 
Gird  on  dread  war's  habiliments, 
And  nobly  stand  in  her  defense, 
And  thereby  thou  shalt  win  a  place 
For  thee  and  for  thy  injured  race, 
Above  the  vulgar  taunt  and  jeer, 
That  grates  so  harshly  on  thy  ear. 


THOUGH  Tennyson,  the  poet  king, 
Has  sung  of  Balaklava's  charge, 
Until  his  thund'ring  cannons  ring 

From  England's  center  to  her  marge, 
The  pleasing  duty  still  remains 
To  sing  a  people  from  their  chains — 
To  sing  what  none  have  yet  assay'd, 
The  wonders  of  the  Black  Brigade. 
The  War  had  raged  some  twenty  moons, 
Ere  they  in  columns  or  platoons, 
To  win  them  censure  or  applause, 
Were  marshal'd  in  the  Union  cause — 
Prejudged  of  slavish  cowardice, 
While  many  a  taunt  and  foul  device 
Came  weekly  forth  with  Harper's  sheet, 
To  feed  that  base,  infernal  cheat. 

But  how  they  would  themselves  demean, 
Has  since  most  gloriously  been  seen. 
'Twas  seen  at  Milliken's  dread  bend, 
Where  e'en  the  Furies  seemed  to  lend 
To  dark  Secession  all  their  aid, 
To  crush  the  Union  Black  Brigade. 


72  BELL'S     POEMS. 

The  war  waxed  hot,  and  bullets  flew 

Like  San  Francisco's  summer  sand, 
But  they  were  there  to  dare  and  do, 

E'en  to  the  last,  to  save  the  land. 
And  when  the  leaders  of  their  corps 

Grew  wild  with  fear,  and  quit  the  field, 
The  dark  remembrance  of  their  scars 

Before  them  rose,  they  could  not  yield : 
And,  sounding  o'er  the  battle  din, 

They  heard  their  standard-bearer  cry— 
"Rally!  and  prove  that  ye  are  men! 

Rally!  and  let  us  do  or  die! 
For  war,  nor  death,  shall  boast  a  shade 

To  daunt  the  Union  Black  Brigade!" 

And  thus  he  played  the  hero's  part, 

Till  on  the  ramparts  of  the  foe 
A  score  of  bullets  pierced  his  heart, 

He  sank  within  the  trench  below. 
His  comrades  saw,  and  fired  with  rage, 
Each  sought  his  man,  him  to  engage 
In  single  combat.     Ah !  'twas  then 
The  Black  Brigade  proved  they  were  men! 
For  ne'er  did  Swiss !  or  Russ !  or  knight ! 

Against  such  fearful  odds  array 'ed, 
With  more  persistent  valor  fight. 

Than  did  the  Union  Black  Brigade ! 

As  five  to  one,  so  stood  their  foes, 
When  that  defiant  shout  arose, 
And  'long  their  closing  columns  ran. 
Commanding  each  to  choose  his  man ! 
And  ere  the  sound  had  died  away, 
Full  many  a  ranting  rebel  lay 
Gasping  piteously  for  breath — 
Struggling  with  the  pangs  of  death, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  73 

From  bayonet  thrust  or  shining  blade, 
Plunged  to  the  hilt  by  the  Black  Brigade. 
And  thus  they  fought,  and  won  a  name — 
None  brighter  on  the  scroll  of  Fame; 
For  out  of  one  full  corps  of  men, 
But  one  remained  unwounded,  when 
The  dreadful  fray  had  fully  past — 
All  killed  or  wounded  but  the  last ! 

And  though  they  fell,  as  has  been  seen, 
Each  slept  his  lifeless  foes  between, 
And  marked  the  course  and  paved  the  way 
To  ushering  in  a  better  day. 
Let  Balaklava's  cannons  roar, 

And  Tennyson  his  hosts  parade, 
But  ne'er  was  seen  and  never  more 

The  equals  of  the  Black  Brigade ! 

Then  nerve  thy  heart,  gird  on  thy  sword, 
For  dark  Oppression's  ruthless  horde 
And  thy  tried  friends  are  in  the  field — 
Say  which  shall  triumph,  which  shall  yield. 
Shall  they  that  heed  not  man  nor  God — 
Vile  monsters  of  the  gory  rod— 
Dark  forgers  of  the  rack  and  chain: 
Shall  they  prevail — and  Thraldom's  reign, 
With  all  his  dark  unnumber'd  ills. 
Become  eternal  as  the  hills? 
No!  by  the  blood  of  freemen  slain, 
On  hot^contested  field  and  main, 
And  by  the  mingled  sweat  and  tears, 
Extorted  through  these  many  years 
From  Afric's  patient  sons  of  toil- 
Weak  victims  of  a  braggart's  spoil— 
This  bastard  plant,  the  LTpas  tree, 
Shall  not  supplant  our  liberty !     . 


74  BELL'S     POEMS. 

But  in  the  right,  our  sword  of  power 
We'll  firmly  grasp  in  this  dread  hour, 
And  in  the  life-tide's  crimson  flow 
Of  those  that  wrong  us,  write  our  No ! 
No !  by  all  that's  great  and  good ; 
No !  by  a  common  brotherhood, 
The  wrong  no  longer  shall  prevail, 
Its  myriad  horrors  to  entail ! 

Better  in  youth  pass  off  life's  stage, 
Battling  'gainst  a  tyrant's  rage, 
Than  live  to  three-score  years  and  ten, 
Disown'd  of  God,  despised  of  men ; 
Better  that  cities,  hamlets,  towns, 
And  every  hut  where  life  abounds, 
In  conflagration's  ruins  lie, 
Than  men  as  things  should  live  and  die ; 
Better  the  whetted  knife  be  brought, 
And  quick  as  lightning  speeds  a  thought, 
Hurl  life  all  wreaking  from  its  throne, 
Than  live  their  manhood  to  disown, 
Sooner  than  bear  a  hell  of  pain, 
And  wear  a  festering,  galling  chain, 
To  hoary  age  e'en  from  their  birth, 
And  die  the  meanest  thing  on  earth. 

There  is  no  deed  they  should  not  do, 
Could  they  thereby  obtain  the  clue, 
The  motive  power  and  the  might 
To  set  their  outraged  people  right! 
Then  grasp  the  sword,  discard  the  sheath, 
And  strike  for  Liberty  or  Death ! 
But  what  is  death?    ''Tis,  after  all, 
The  merest  transit  from  this  ball 
To  some  bright  state  or  gloomy  sphere, 
Remote,  perhaps — perhaps  quite  near. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  75 

And  what  is  life?    Hath  it  a  charm, 

While  fetters  gall  the  neck  and  arm, 

And  from  no  species  of  contempt, 

However  base,  to  be  exempt? 

Tis  true  a  noble  bard  hath  said 

That  to  the  regions  of  the  dead 

"What  dreams  may  come,  now  give  us  pause." 

But  who  can  so  thwart  Nature's  laws 

As  to  evade  that  dread  unknown, 

Through  aid  or  effort  of  his  own? 

But  is  there  aught  to  haunt  a  dream, 
That  man  should  so  unwelcome  deem, 
As  to  regard  it  worse  than  stripes — 
Worse  than   slavery's   mildest  types? 
No,  no!  there's  nothing,  rest  assured, 
In  life  or  death  to  be  endured — 
There  are  no  tortures  to  excel 
The  fires  of  a  Southern  hell ! 
The  lash,  the  yoke,  the  gag,  the  chain, 
May  each  produce  a  world  of  pain; 
But  what  are  these,  though  all  combined, 
To  gross  sterility  of  mind? 

To  chain  and  scourge  this  mortal  frame, 

It  were  a  sin  and  burning  shame; 

But  who  can  estimate  the  doom 

Of  those  that  quench  and  shroud  in  gloom    . 

The  only  lamp  which  God  hath  given, 

To  light  the  soul  in  earth  or  heaven  ? 

While  this  external  will  expand, 

In  proud  defiance  of  the  brand, 

The  mind,  that  germ  of  tender  growth — 

That  plant  of  far  transcendent  worth, 

Will  neither  bud  nor  bloom  nor  bear, 

Where  thraldom's  breath  infects  the  air. 


76  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Then  onward  roll,  thou  dreadful  War, 

If  thou,  and  thou  alone,  canst  bring 
The  boon  of  Freedom  from  afar; 

Roll  darkly  on,  while  we  sing: 
We  would  not  have  thee  slack  thy  speed, 

Nor  change  the  tenor  of  thy  way, 
Till  each  infernal  law  and  creed 

That  fosters  wrong,  is  swept  away ! 
If  needs  be,  lay  proud  cities  waste ! 

And  slay  thy  thousands  at  a  meal ! 
But  in  thy  wake  let  Freedom  haste, 

With  oil  to  soothe  and  balm  to  heal. 


AND  here  permit  me  to  diverge 
From  real  to  fancy's  flow'ry  marge, 
And  sing  of  what  I  seenrd  to  see 
While  there  enshrined  in  reverie. 
The  past,  and  what  is  yet  to  be 
Reveal'd  in  blank  futurity, 
Swept  like  a  phantom  through  my  brain, 
Of  which  some  shadows  still  remain : 
And  to  those  shadows  let  me  call 
The  eye  and  silent  ear  of  all. 

One  evening,  wrapp'd  in  pensive  mood, 

On  fancy's  wing  I  soar  d  afar, 
Till,  seeing  and  unseen,  I  stood 

Arnid  the  hidden  springs  of  War : 
And  there  upon  a  canvas  vast 
,1  saw  this  cruel  war  sweep  past- 
Its  former  battles  fought  again, 
With  all  the  unfought  in  their  train. 
Upon  the  sea  and  on  the  shore 
Each  battle  scene  was  marked  with  gore ; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  77 

And  bleaching  there  on  sea  and  plain. 

Lay  mangled  bodies  of  the  slain. 

Of' some  were  nothing  save  their  trunk, 

Whose  life  the  thirsty  earth  had  drunk: 

With  legs  and  arms  all  torn  away 

By  some  dread  shell's  destructive  play; 

And  massive  trees  ball-riven  stood, 

All  draped  with  powder,  drenched  with  blood, 

While  clotted  hair  and  flesh  still  clung 

Their  sear'd  and  shattered  boughs  among. 

And  'neath  the  deep  and  angry  waves, 

Thousands  had  found  their  liquid  graves: 

And  sleeping  there  'mid  shoals  and  rocks, 

Were  many  braves  with  fleecy  locks. 

Of  such  were  many  of  the  slain, 

On  every  battle-field  and  plain. 

But  wild  to  pierce  futurity, 
Its  deep  veiled  ultimatum  see, 
And  learn  the  final  of  this  war — 
The  waning  of  our  evil  star — 
I  turned  the  tardy  canvas  from, 
And  sped  me  on,  when  lo !  a  bomb, 
Deeper  in  tone  than  aught  I'd  heard — 
So  deep  the  very  earth  was  stirr'd, 
As  though  the  gods,  in  wrath  or  sport, 
Had  touch'd  some  pillar  of  her  court. 
Of  Peace  it  was  the  harbinger — 
The  long-prayed,  welcome  messenger. 

But  eager  still,  I  onward  sped, 
Unknowing  why,  or  whither  led, 
Till  in  my  path  an  angel  rose, 
My  further  progress  to  oppose. 
His  form  was  tall  and  passing  fair — 
His  raiment  like  the  driven  snow, 


78  BELL'S     POEMS. 

And  trod  he  on  the  ambient  air 
As  mortals  walk  the  earth  below. 

His  voice,  though  soft,  seemed  to  expand, 
And  e'en  in  compass  to  increase, 

Till  every  nook  of  our  fair  land 
Rang  with  the  joyous  song  of  PEACE  ! 
Peace !  and  the  loud-mouth 'd  cannon's  roar 
In  silence  slept,  to  wake  no  more ! 
Peace!  and  the  soldier  quits  the  field, 
And  doffs  his  corslet,  sword  and  shield, 
And  in  the  burden  of  his  lay, 
The  din  of  battle  died  away : 
And  lilies  bloom'd  and  olives  spread 
In  rich  profusion  o'er  the  dead. 

The  dark  Rebellion  had  been  crushed, 
And  every  wailing  sound  was  hushed; 
And  there  was  not  a  slavish  chain 
In  all  Columbia's  fair  domain. 
And  then  and  there  I  saw  unfold, 
All  fresh  and  bright  from  Freedom's  mould, 
A  real  Republic — such  a  one 
As  should  have  passed  from  sire  to  son ; 
A  real  Republic — free !  uncurs'd ! 
The  sole  intention  of  the  first — 
In  which  the  bright  Damascus  blade 
Became  the  farmer's  plowing  spade: 
And  with  the  spear  he  pois'd  of  yore 
His  golden  harvest  did  secure. 

And  far  away  as  the  eye  could  span, 
In  its  vast  sweep  from  strand  to  strand, 
I  saw  no  South,  North,  East  nor  West, 
But  one  broad  land,  all  free  and  blest; 
And  there  was  not  a  jarring  sound 
In  all  the  vastitude  profound — 


BELL'S     POEMS.  79 

No  wail,  no  sob,  no  sigh,  no  tear, 
To  dim  the  eye  or  mar  the  ear. 
And  violets  bloomed  the  banks  along, 
And  the  lark  poured  forth  his  matin  song, 
And  the  lowly  cot  and  massive  dome 
Had  each  the  air  of  a  joyous  home; 
And  temples  rear'd  their  spires  on  high, 
Pointing  away  to  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
And  myriad  souls  had  gathered  there, 
Whose  grateful  hearts  went  up  in  prayer 
To  the  God  of  love,  whose  gracious  hand 
Had  clothed  in  peace  their  bleeding  land. 


WITH  one  allusion,  we  have  done 
The  task  so  joyously  begun: 
It  is  to  speak,  in  measured  lays, 
Of  him  the  Nation  loves  to  praise. 

When  that  inspired  instrument, 
The  subject  of  this  great  event, 
Forth  from  the  Halls  of  Congress  came, 
With  even  justice  as  its  aim, 
'Twas  deem'd  by  some  a  fiendish  rod, 
But  otherwise  adjudged  of  God, 
Who,  turning  earthward  from  His  throne, 
Beheld  great  Lincoln  all  alone, 
With  earth-bent  brow,  in  pensive  mood, 
Pondering  o'er  some  unsubdued 
And  knotty  problem,  half  dissolved, 
And  half  in  mystery  yet  involved. 

The  interest  of  a  continent, 
All  broken  up  by  discontent— 
His  own  dear  land,  land  of  his  love, 


80  BELL'S     POEMS. 

The  fairest  'neath  the  realms  above — 
Weighed  down  his  form  and  rack'd  his  brain, 
And  filled  his  patriot  heart  with  pain. 
But  when  his  mind  conceived  the  thought 

TO  WRITE  FOUR  MILLION  CAPTIVES  FREE! 

An  angel  to  his  conscience  brought 

Approving  smiles  of  Deity ; 
And  ere  he  had  with  flesh  conferr'd, 

He  gave  the  bright  conception  birth, 
And  distant  nations  saw  and  heard, 

And  bless'd  his  mission  on  the  earth. 

And  we  today  reiterate, 
With  warmth  of  heart  and  depth. of  soul, 
God  bless  Americ's  Magistrate! 
Long  may  he  live  to  guide,  control ; 
Long  may  that  arching  brow  and  high — 
That  spiritual  and  piercing  eye : 
That  tall,  majestic,  manly  form — 
Live,  our  rainbow  'midst  the  storm; 
And  when  the  roar  of  battle's  pass'd ; 
When  vain  Secession's  breath'd  his  last; 
When  peace  and  order  are  restored, 
And  Freedom  sits  at  every  board ; 
And  when  the  Nation  shall  convene 
In  mass,  as  ne'er  before  was  seen, 
And  render  eulogistic  meeds 
To  worthy  heroes'  noble  deeds, 
A  lengthened  train  shall  claim  their  boast, 
But  LINCOLN'S  name  shall  lead  the  host! 
His  name  shall  grow  a  household  word, 
Where'er  the  human  voice  is  heard ; 
And  tribes  and  peoples  yet  unborn, 
Shall  hail  and  bless  his  natal  morn. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  81 

ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  DISTRICT 
OF  COLUMBIA. 

Thank  God !  from  our  old  ensign 

Is  erased  one  mark  of  shame, 
Which  leaves  one  less  to  rapine, 

One  less  to  blight  our  fame. 
For  two  and  sixty  summers 

Has  our  broad  escutcheon  waved, 
Amid  the  ceaseless  murmurs 

And  wails  of  the  enslaved; 
But  in  the  blest  hereafter 

Shall  our  oft  afflicted  ears, 
Be  solaced  with  bright  laughter, 

With  gladsome  praise  and  cheers. 
For  freedom's  altar's  basis 

More  permanent  shall  be, 
When  rid  the  gaunt  embraces 

Of  fell  barbarity. 

******* 
If  Congress  hath  the  power 

To  expel  from  ten  miles  square 
The  Goliah  of  the  hour, 

And  charge  the  tainted  air 
With  the  pure  breath  of  freedom, 

As  to  baffle  all  return, 
Should  she  not  e'en  from  Sodom 

The  vaunted  monster  spurn? 
Roaring  like  distant  waters 

Which  no  power  can  repress, 
Up  from  ten  thousand  quarters 

Comes  the  responsive  yes ! 
Yes  !  yes ;  our  nation's  banner 

We  should  purge  from  all  its  stains, 
Nor  yield  to  might  nor  manner, 

Till  Right  triumphant  reigns. 


82  BELL'S     POEMS. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIBERTY.       - 

Dedicated  to  Rt.  Rev.  Jabez  Pitt  Campbell,  bishop  of 
the  A.  M.  E.  church,  as  a  slight  tribute  to  his  many 
noble  qualities,  his  exalted  piety,  and  his  labors  in  be- 
half of  his  oppressed  race. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


The  "Progress  of  Liberty"  is  delineated  in  the 
events  of  the  past  four  years — the  overthrow  of  the 
rebellion,  the  crushing  of  the  spirit  of  anarchy,  the 
total  extinction  of  slavery,  and  the  return  of  peace  and 
joy  to  our  beloved  country. 

The  invincibility  of  Liberty  is  illustrated  in  the 
beautiful  episode  of  the  Swiss  patriot,  William  Tell, 
wherein  the  goddess  is  personified  by  an  eagle  tower- 
ing amidst  the  clouds. 

The  poet  claims  the  full  enfranchisement  of  his  race 
from  political,  as  well 'as  personal  thraldom,  and  de- 
clares that  the  "Progress  of  Liberty"  will  not  be  com- 
plete until  the  ballot  is  given  to  the  loyal  freedrnen. 

The  noble  actions  and  self-sacrificing  spirit  of  the 
immortal  Lincoln  is  next  sung,  and  in  mournful  strains 
the  poet  bewails  his  martyrdom.  This  concludes  with 
a  touching  eulogy  on  our  sainted  martyr. 

The  reconstruction  policy  of  President  Johnson  is 
reviewed,  and,  while  objecting,  the  poet  does  not 
wholly  condemn  his  motives,  but  warns  the  ruling 
powers  that  unless  the  spirit  of  rebellion  is  wholly  ob- 
literated and  every  vestige  swept  away,  it  will  only 
slumber  to  awake  again  with  renewed  ferocity. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  83 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIBERTY. 

Never,  in  all  the  march  of  time, 
Dawned  on  this  land  a  more  sublime 
And  grand  event,  than  that  for  which 
Today  the  lowly  and  the  rich 
From  thrice  ten  thousand  altars  send 
Their   orisons   to    God,    their   friend. 

The  severance  of  the  bondsman's  chain; 

The  opening  wide  the  prison  door, 
And  ushering  in  this  glorious  reign 

Of   liberty   from   shore   to   shore, 
Has  formed  an  epoch  in  the  life 

Of  this  great  nation  that  shall  stand 
And  consecrate  to  sanguine  strife 

The  full  redemption  of  the  land. 

Hail !  hail !  glad  day !  thy  blest  return 

We  greet  with  speech  and  joyous  lay. 
High  shall  our  altar-fires  burn, 

And  proudly  beat  our  hearts  today. 
And  thou,  thou  ancient  holiday! 

We  hail  thee  with  a  new  delight, 
Since  hope's  bright  beams  and  freedom's  ray 

Have  dawned  upon  the  bondsman's  night — 
Dawned  on  his  night  and  interspersed 

A  deathless  yearning  to  be  free ; 
A  heaven-approved  and  burning  thirst, 

That  naught  can  quench  but  liberty. 


84  BELL'S     POEMS. 

O,  Liberty,  what  charm  so  great ! 

One  radiant  smile,  one  look  of  thine 
Can  change  the  drooping  bondsman's  fate, 

And  light  his  brow  with  hope  divine. 
His  manhood,  wrapped  in  rayless  gloom, 

At  thy  approach  throws  off  its  pall, 
And  rising  up,  as  from  the  tomb, 

Stands  forth  defiant  of  the  thrall. 
No  tyrant's  power  can  crush  the  soul 

Illumed  by  thine  inspiring  ray; 
The  fiendishness  of  base  control 

Flies  thy  approach  as  night  from  day. 

Ride  onward,  in  thy  chariot  ride, 

Thou  peerless  queen ;  ride  on,  ride  on — 
With  Truth  and  Justice  by  thy  side — 

From  pole  to  pole,  from  sun  to  sun ! 
Nor  linger  in  our  bleeding  South, 

Nor  domicile  with  race  or  clan ; 
But  in  thy  glorious  goings  forth, 

Be  thy  benignant  object  Man. 

Of  every  clime,  of  every  hue, 

Of  every  tongue,  of  every  race, 
'Neath  heaven's  broad,  etheral  blue; 

Oh !  let  thy  radiant  smiles  embrace : 
Till  neither  slave  nor  one  oppressed 

Remain  throughout  creation's  span, 
By  thee  unpitied  and  unblest 

Of  all  the  progeny  of  man. 

We  fain  would  have  the  world  aspire 
To  that  proud  height  of  free  desire, 
That  flamed  the  heart  of  Switzer's  Tell 
(Whose  archery  skill  none  could  excel), 
When  once  upon  his  Alpine  brow, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  85 

He  stood  reclining  on  his  bow, 
And  saw,  careering  in  his  might — 
In  all  his  majesty  of  flight — 
A  lordly  eagle  float  and  swing 
Upon  his  broad,  untramelled  wing. 

He  bent  his  bow,  he  poised  his  dart, 
With  full  intent  to  pierce  the  heart; 
But  as  the  proud  bird  nearer  drew, 
His  stalwart  arm  unsteady  grew, 
His  arrow  lingered  in  the  groove — 
The  cord  unwilling  seemed  to  move, 
For  there  he  saw  personified 
That  freedom  which  had  been  his  pride ; 
And  as  the  eagle  onward  sped, 
O'er  lofty  hill  and  towering  tree, 
He  dropped  his  bow,  he  bowed  his  head ; 
He  could  not  shoot — 'twas  Liberty ! 

For  men  have  ever  been  disposed 

To  crush  their  weaker  fellows  down; 

Their  selfish  natures  stand  opposed 
To  the  heart's  free,  aspiring  bound. 

For  e'er  since  Time  his  march  began 
Or  mighty  rivers  seaward  ran, 

In  greater  or  in  less  degree 

The  world's  been  cursed  by  slavery. 

Nor  has  the  system  been  confined 

To  any  nation,  race  or  kind ; 

The  Celt,  the  Saxon  and  the  Dane, 

Each,  in  their  turn,  have  worn  the  chain ; 

Each  have  been  slaves— each  bought  and  sold; 

Their  blood-price  paid  in  paltry  gold, 

And  from  their  kinships,  loved  and  lorn, 

To  distant  lands  by  strangers  borne, 


b6  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Where   suffered   they    full   many   a   wrong- 
And  where  in  bondage  served  they  long. 
Though  long  enthralled,  yet  there  remains 
Not  e'en  a  vestige  of  their  chains ; 
And  were  it  not  for  history's  lore, 
The  buried  fact  none  could  explore. 
Freedom  has  swept  their  chains  away 
And  clothed  them  with  a  brighter  day. 
For  in  despite  all  efforts  made, 
There  e'er  has  been  a  certain  grade 
In  the  enslavement  of  a  race, 
At  which  reaction  takes  its  place; 
A  point  at  which  the  crushed  to  earth, 
Impelled  by  irate  manly  worth, 
Throw  off. the  yoke,  discard  the  brand, 
And  claim  their  peerage  in  the  land! 
They  rise,  and  fate  proclaims  the  hour; 
They  seize  the  reigns  and  march  to  power. 

As  in  the  past,  so  shall  it  be 

Through  all  the  unborn  years  afar; 
Till  earth  is  wholly  purged  and  free, 

Will  man  'gainst  man  go  forth  to  war. 
Wake,  in  your  minds  the  sleeping  world, 

From  Eden's  banished  pair  till  now, 
Behold  war's  crimson  flag  unfurled 

On  every  plain  and  mountain  brow. 
The  sword  has  been  the  pioneer — 

The  civilizer  of  mankind — 
The  John  the  Baptist  sent  to  clear 

The  way  and  fix  the  erring  mind ; 

And  the  priest,   with   Bible   spread, 
Walks  more  securely  where  the  tread 
Of  the  swordsman  in  his  wrath 
Has  left  his  foot-prints  in  the  path. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  87 

Nor  could  the  sciences  unfold 

Their  wings  that's  purer  far  than  gold, 

Had  not  the  savage  in  the  breast 

Of  savage  men  been  put  to  rest. 

Thus,  on  her  even-tenored  way 

Fair  truth  has  ever  kept  her  course, 
Battling  now  with   fell   delay- 
Now  sweeping  on  with  matchless  force. 
In  mystic  armor,  bright  and  fair, 

Her  braves  stand  mailed  'gainst  dread  despair. 
Hence,  they  who  battle  for  the  right 

Are  always  stronger  than  the  foe, 
And  only  need  the  radiant  light 

Of  liberty  their  strength  to  know. 
Although  its  light  may  be  withdrawn, 

And  error's  blackening  clouds  increase, 
Yet  time  will  bring  the  glorious  dawn 

Of  Liberty  and  Truth  and  Peace. 
Their  strength,  numerically  viewed, 

May  seem  but  nothing  in  the  scale ; 
Yet,  if  their  hearts  are  each  imbued 

With  liberty,  they  cannot  fail ; 
For  they  who  fight  for  liberty, 

They  fight  to  conquest  or  to  death, 
And  gain  their  proudest  victory 

When  the  cause  receives  their  breath. 

Though  error's  numerous  hosts  array 

The  march  of  freedom  to  impede, 
'Twere  vain:  no  forces  can  delay 

A  Heaven-commissioned  mortal  need. 
The  wrong  cannot  forever  last — 

The  right  is  mightier  than  the  chain, 
And  in  the  future,  as  in  the  past, 

Liberty  must  and  shall  obtain. 


88  BELL'S     POEMS. 

The  tyrant's  hand  may  firmly  clasp 
And  strive  to  hold  within  his  grasp 
Those  whom  his  baseness  has  betrayed — 
His  fiendish  nature  helped  degrade — 
Yet,  in  power  and  might  and  main, 
Liberty  must  and  shall  obtain. 

The  bondsman's  gloomy  night  has  passed; 

The  slavery  of  this  land  is  dead; 
Nor  tyrant's  power,  however  vast, 

Can  wake  it  from  its  gory  bed. 
For  in  the  order  of  events, 

And  after  an  ignoble  reign, 
It  died.     None  mourned  its  going  hence, 

Nor  followed  in  its  funeral  train ; 
Ignoble  birth,   ignoble  life, 

Ignoble  death,  ignoble  doom ! 
Conceived  by  fiends  in  deadly  strife, 

And  cast  into  a  nameless  tomb. 

Though  slavery's  dead,  yet  there  remains 
A  work  for  those  from  whom  the  chains 
Today  are  falling  one  by  one ; 
Nor  should  they  deem  their  labor  done, 
Nor  shrink  the  task,  however  hard, 
While  it  insures  a  great  reward, 
And  bids  them  on  its  might  depend 
For  perfect  freedom  in  the  end. 

Commend  yourselves  through  self-respect; 

Let  self-respect  become  your  guide : 
Then  will  consistency  reflect 

Your  rightful  claims  to  manhood's  pride. 
But  while  you  cringe  and  basely  cower, 

And  while  you  ostracise  your  class, 
Heaven  will  ne'er  assume  the  power 

To  elevate  vou  as  a  mass. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  89 

In  this  yourselves  must  take  the  lead; 

You  must  yourselves  first  elevate; 
Till  then  the  world  will  ne'er  concede 

Your  claims  to  manhood's  high  estate. 
Respect  yourself ;  this  forms  the  base 

Of  manhood's  claim  to  man's  regard. 
Next  to  yourself,  respect  your  race, 

Whose  care  should  be  your  constant  ward ; 
Remember  that  you  are  a  class 

Distinct  and  separate  in  this  land, 
And  all  the  wealth  you  may  amass, 

Or  skill,  or  learning,  won't  command 
That  high  respect  you  vainly  seek, 

Until  you  practice  what  you  claim — 
Until  the  acts  and  words  you  speak 

Shall,  in  the  concrete,  be  the  same. 

Screen  not  behind  a  pallid  brow ; 

Paint  lends  no  virtue  to  the  face ; 
Until  the  Black's  respected,  thou 

With  all  the  branches  of  his  race, 
Must  bow  beneath  the  cruel  ban 

And  often  feel  the   wrinkled  brow 
Bent  on  you  be  a  fellow-man 

Not  half  so  worthy,  oft,  as  thou. 

Away  with  caste,  and  let  us  fight 

As  men,  the  battles  of  the  free, 
And  Heaven  will  arm  you  with  the  might 

And  power  of  man's  divinity. 
There  may  be  causes  for  distrust, 
And  many  an  act  that  seems  unjust; 
But  who,  when  taking  all  in  all, 

And  summing  up  our  present  state, 
Would  find  no  objects  to  extol, 

No  worthy  deeds  to  emulate? 


90  BELL'S     POEMS. 

If  such  there  be,  deem  him  confessed 

Before  the  shrine  of  liberty 
As  one  that  would  the  trjith  arrest 

And  crush  to  earth  humanity; 
For  who,  unless  their  sympathies 

Are  with  the  spoilers  of  the  poor,    * 
Could  heedless  pass  realities 

So  fraught  with  freedom's  genial  lore? 
Although  the  car  of  freedom  moves 

Less  swift  by  far  than  we  desire, 
Yet  stations  gained  and  passed  should  prove 

The  destined  goal  is  drawing  nigher. 

What  though  upon  some  distant  verge, 

Or  in  some  rayless  cave  or  den, 
The  cruel,  fiendish  tyrant's  scourge 

Doth  still  afflict  the  poor  of  men:   , 
Has  not  the  conquering  arm  of  Right 

Become  the  power  behind  the  throne? 
Shall  not  the  fell  oppressor,  Might, 

For  all  his  ruthless  acts  atone  ? 
To  solve  this  query,  ask  not  Tyre, 

Nor  wander  back  to  Greece  or  Rome ; 
But  of  the  living  now  enquire, 

And  read  those  foot-prints  'round  your  home. 

Read  but  the  record  that  appears 
Upon  the  scroll  of  four  short  years, 
And  truth  enough,  I  vow,  you'll  find 
To  satisfy  an  honest  mind. 

Four  years  ago  fell  slavery's  reign 

Within  this  land  was  absolute; 
The  brand,  the  fetter  and  the  chain 

Were  forged  for  man  as  for  the  brute. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  91 

And  in  those  ten  miles  square  of  earth, 

Which  ever  sacred  should  have  been 
To  liberty  and  manly  worth, 

The  statesman  sold  and  bought  his  kin ; 
For  there  the  auction-block  was  seen, 

And  hard  by  stood  the  whipping-post, 
Where  oft,  alas !  from  fiendish  spleen, 

The  poor  have  yielded  up  the  ghost. 


Four  years  have  gone,  and  now  that  square 

Of  two-score  miles  in  circuit  round, 
Freights  every  passing  breath  of  air 

With  freedom's  grand  and  joyous  sound. 
The  whipping-post,  the  slaver's  mart, 

The  scourge,  the  brand,  the  yoke,  the  chain, 
Have  all  been  banished  from  the  heart 

Of  fair  America's  domain. 


Four  years  ago,  and  there  was  not 

A  sable  freeman  in  this  land; 
Though  thousands  gloried  in  their  lot, 

Yet  were  they  all  beneath  the  brand. 
That  foul  rendition  law,  which  gave 

To  avarice  unquestioned  right 
To  seize  the  man  deemed  as  a  slave, 

And  drag  him  down  to  thraldom's  night, 
Exposed  six  hundred  thousand  souls 

To  insult,  outrage  and  abuse, 
In  view  of  all  the  perjured  scrolls 

That  fiends  incarnate  could  adduce ; 
But  that  base  law  and  baser  hearts 

Of  those  who  gave  it  prominence, 
Have  each  on  earth  performed  their  parts, 

And  gone  to  their  dread  recompense. 


92  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Nor  is  this  all  that  has  been  done 

In  four  short  years  beneath  the  sun : 
Liberia  has  been  recognized — 

Also  the  Haytian's  island  home; 
And  lo !  a  Negro  undisguised 

Has  preached  within  the  nation's  dome ! 
And  proud  Columbia's  highest  court 

Receives  a  counselor  elect, 
Which  gives  the  lie  to  the  report 

That  fain  would  rob  us  of  respect, 
While  Taney,  with  curses  on  his  grave, 

Has  gone  to  stand  that  Judge  before, 
At  whose  dread  bar  the  poorest  slave 

Is  judged  a  man,  and  he — no  more. 

Like  Cana's  wine,  the  last  and  best, 
And  far  transcending  all  the  rest, 
Is  that  grand  act  for  which  we  meet 
Each  New  Year  day  to  laud  and  greet — 
The  issuance  of  that  blest  decree 
Through  which  the  millions  now  are  free. 
We  laud  the  act  and  laud  the  worth 
Of  the  noble  heart  which  gave  it  birth ; 
For  which  today  we  gladly  raise 
Our  hands  and  hearts  in  grateful  praise 
To  Him  who  spake,  and  lo!  'twas  done; 
Whose  work  is  finished — e'er  begun ; 
And  while  innumerous  songs  shall  rise 
In  grand  memorials  to  the  skies, 
The  burden  of  all  our  songs  shall  be 
To  Lincoln,  God  and  Liberty ! 
Sing,  oh !  my  harp,  one  song  of  cheer 
To  that  fond  name  we  all  revere ; 
Sing  of  his  trust,  sing  of  his  love, 
O,  sing  of  his  home  in  the  realms  above ! 
High  on  the  towering  spire  of  fame, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  93 

In  bold  relief  stands  out  a  name 
Which  time  can  ne'er  efface  or  dim: 
It  is  the  peerless  name  of  him 
Who  dared  his  frowning  land  despite, 
Do  what  his  conscience  deemed  as  right ; 
Who  dared  proclaim,  that  all  might  hear, 
The  dawn  of  freedom's  jubilant  year. 
And  when  the  glorious  news  went  forth, 
It  fell,  like  Heaven's  benignant  dew, 
Upon  the  bondsmen  of  the  south, 
And  all  that  wore  the  sable  hue — 
Not  only  those  of  sable  hue, 
But  every  lover  of  the  right 
Grasped  his  unsheathed  sword  anew, 
And  nerved  his  heart  with  tenfold  might, 
Determined  to  wipe  out  the  stain  — 
The  vile  excresence  to  remove — 
And  free  from  each  obnoxious  ban 
The  home  and  country  of  his  love. 

Yon  proclamation  of  the  free 

Is  now  the  living  testament 
Of  that  great  soul  of  liberty, 

Whose  heart  conceived  its  continent, 
Whose  mission  was  to  rend  the  chain 

And  let  the  long  oppressed  go  free ; 
And  having  wholly  filled  his  reign, 

He  laid  aside  mortality 
And  donned  the  vesture  of  the  spheres, 
'  And  passed  beyond  our  mortal  ken, 
To  regions  far  remote  from  men — 

Where  all  that's  great  and  good  appear. 
Though  gone  from  earth,  he  is  not  dead ; 

The  great,  the  good,  they  never  die ; 
But  when  these  transient  forms  they  shed, 

In  fadeless  youth  they  bloom  on  high. 


94  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Oh !  could  we  pass  beyond  the  doom 
And  range  through  fields  forever  fair, 

Arrayed  in  Heaven's  eternal  bloom, 
We'd  find  our  benefactor  there. 

The  Moses  kind  Heaven  in  mercy  had  lent 

To  lead  us  away  from  our  discontent, 

For  we,  like  Israel,  were  oppressed, 

And  long  our  bleeding  hearts'  unrest 

Has  fallen  on  the  dewy  night 

While  pleading  with  the  Infinite. 

The  orbit-lamps  which  burn  on  high 

And  flood  with  joy  the  azure  sky — 

The  silver  moon  and  clouds  that  sweep 

Athrough  the  far-off  realms  so  deep, 

Are  all  familiar  with  our  woe, 

And  of  our  griefs  how  much  they  know : 

For  when  from  pleasure's  jovial  round 

The  careless  world  lay  slumber-bound, 

We've  knelt  and  looked  up  through  our  tears, 

And  asked  of  Heaven,  how  many  years 

Shall  vile  injustice  basely  reign? 

How  many  years  from  'neath  the  chain 
Shall  Godlike  man,  a  creature  made 
But  one  step  lower  in  the  grade 
Of  wisdom's  all-creative  skill 
Than  those  bright  heralds  of  His  will 
Which  stand  His  throne  forever  by, 
Or  on  their  spotless  pinions  fly; 
Pour  forth  upon  the  midnight  air 
The  doleful  wail  of  his  despair; 
And  oft  from  out  the  lunar  heaven 
Glad  signs  of  promise  have  been  given. 
A  Moses  has  been  typified — 
A  prophet  and  a  people's  guide ; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  95 

And  we  by  faith  have  looked  away 
Beyond  the  night  to  the  glorious  day 
When  in  His  strength  the  arm  of  God 
Should  rend  the  chain  and  break  the  rod, 
And  lead  the  oppressed  from  'neath  the  brand 
To  manhood's  joy  in  freedom's  land. 

Although  intense  the  darkness  grew, 

As  nearer  still  and  nearer  drew 

The  rising  dawn  ordained  to  bring 

The  day  of  promise  on  its  wing, 

And  every  hand  against  us  turned, 

And  on  us  every  passer  spurned, 

Yet,  was  our  deathless  trust  the  same 

In  Him  who  gave  the  sun  his  flame, 

And  spake  from  dark  chaotic  gloom 

Bright  worlds  on  worlds  to  live  and  bloom, 

And  by  some  deep,  unfathomed  source 

Bound  them  forever  to  their  course, 

And  on  their  broad  and  convexed  face 

To  all  the  breathing  tribes  gave  place ; 

To  these  that  ply  their  finny  oar, 

And  live  where  ocean  thunders  roar ; 

To  those  that  float  upon  the  breeze 

And  build  their  homes  'mid  rocks  and  trees ; 

To  those  that  prowl  in  quest  of  prey, 

When  night  has  closed  the  eye  of  day, 

And  those  that  serve  and  blessings  bring, 

With  every  beast  and  creeping  thing, 

And  holds  forever  in  His  hands 

The  destiny  of  men  and  lands — 

The  destiny  of  every  sphere 

In  heaven's  blue  fields,  remote  or  near, 

While  every  creature  He  has  made 

Commands  His  care  and  special  aid.  i 


96  BELL'S     POEMS. 

A  God  like  this,  we'd  fain  adore ; 
His  friendship  ours,  our  cause  is  sure. 
As  Israel,  when  they  neared  that  sea 
Whose  waves  rolled  back  with  majesty, 
And  stood  congealed  in  all  their  pride, 
A  liquid  wall  on  either  side; 
Assembled  on  the  farther  strand, 
And  holding  up  their  leader's  hand, 
They  prayed,  harped,  danced  and  sung, 
The  aged  mingling  with  the  young, 
While  this  refrain  was  heard  afar, 
"The  Lord,  the  Lord's  a  Man  of  war, 
And  like  no  other  God  is  He ; 
God  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  sea !" 

And  while  they  danced  did  Miriam  sing : 
"The  Lord's  my  strength,  the  Lord's  my  king!" 
Like  them,  we've  halted  on  the  shore, 
To  sing  and  tell  our  triumphs  o'er. 

The  bondsman's  chains  at  length  are  riven, 

The  fettered  limbs  forever  free ; 
Shout  thou,  O  Earth,  and  thou,  O  Heaven, 

Proclaim  the  gladsome  jubilee! 


Now,  to  that  feature  of  our  lay 
Involving  interests  of  today- 
Involving  interests  of  the  state — 
Interests  small  and  interests  great; 
The  interest  of  the  rich  and  poor — 
Their  interest  now  and  evermore. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  97 

The  rebels — crushed  in  their  endeavor 

To  rend  in  twain  this  glorious  land — 
Are  still  its  foes,  and  will  forever 

Upon  the  side  of  treason  stand, 
Till  all  the  streets  which  lead  to  power 

Freedom  shall  firmly  barricade; 
They'll  wait  in  hope  and  pray  the  hour 

Auspicious  to  their  fiendish  raid. 

The  panther  changeth  not  his  nature, 

Though  chained,  is  still  a  treacherous  beast, 
Seeking  ever  for  his  capture 

And  on  his  captor's  life  to  feast. 
To  this  extent  doth  bloody  treason 

Pervade  the  powerless  rebel's  heart; 
They  still  are  traitors,  and  bide  their  season 

To  hurl  at  truth  their  poisoned  dart. 

Look  to  those  streets  which  lead  to  office: 

'Tis  long  those  by-paths  they  would  come; 
Place  there  a  strong  and  trusty  police; 

Guard  well  the  nation's  classic  dome. 
Raise  no  seceder  to  position, 

Place  no  foul  traitor  in  command, 
And  thereby  hinder  a  sedition 

Deep  as  the  base-work  of  our  land. 

Oh,  let  it  not  in  truth  be  spoken, 

For  four  long  years  we've  war'd  in  vain ; 
The  gordian  knot  remains  unbroken, 

And  we  are  yet  beneath  the  chain, 
And  they,  the  plotters  of  secession, 

Have  still  their  rods  above  our  head, 
Extorting  from  us  a  concession 

E'en  in  the  face  of  all  our  dead. 


98  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Where  is  that  fiend-like  will  which  fostered 

The  dark  rebellion  at  the  first? 
Deem  it  not  dead,  or  e'en  exhausted — 

It  waits  its  time  to  slake  its  thirst, 
And  in  an  hour  the  least  expected, 

And  from  a  source  we  little  deem — 
When  liberty's  the  least  protected, 

'Twill  start  again  the  crimson  stream. 

Unless  the  roots  are  all  extracted, 

The  cancer  will  return  again; 
For  partial  surgery,  when  enacted, 

Imperils  life,  engenders  pain. 
Unless  the  causes  which  incited 

This  fearful  war  we  now  remove, 
The  torch  again  will  be  ignited — 

And  peace  an  airy  bubble  prove. 

Of  what  avail  is  their  parolment — 

What  vow  so  sacred  could  they  make, 
That,  once  released  from  war's  controlment, 

Their  perjured  natures  would  not  break? 
There  are  no  oaths,  nor  vows  can  alter 

The  life-long  purpose  of  the  heart ; 
Though  firmly  pledged,  man  will  not  falter 

When  chance  proclaims  to  play  his  part. 

Go,  ferret  out  those  vile  seceders — 

Seek  them  anear,  and  seek  them  afar, 
And  bring  to  justice  all  their  leaders — 

Base  plotters  in  this  bloody  war. 
Be  they  bishops,  priests,  or  laymen, 

Bring  them,  nor  through  pity  spare ; 
Confine  them  where  the  truth  placed  Haman — 

Confine  them  in  the  middle  air. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  99 

There  let  them  swing  from  early  morning 

Till  night  shall  wrap  the  earth  in  gloom, 
A  fit  rebuke  and  needful  warning 

To  all  who  chance  escape  their  doom; 
That  ne'er  again  while  Sol  illumines 

The  regions  of  unbounded  space, 
May  dark,  mysterious,  fearful  omens 

O'erspread  our  land  with  such  disgrace. 

Oh,  ye,  who  claim  to  scan  the  future, 

And  read  for  man — unborn  events^ 
Pray  tell  us  what  shall  be  the  nature 

Of  the  bondsmen's  future  tense ; 
Shall  they  from  whom  the  yoke  has  fallen, 

From  whom  the  fetter  has  been  loosed, 
Aspire  to  no  loftier  calling, 

But  still  live  on  to  be  abused? 

And  will  this  land  of  boasted  freedom,    • 

In  whose  defense  our  braves  have  died, 
Now,  when  the  cause  no  more  doth  need  them, 

Remand  them  back  without  a  guide, 
And  institute  no  laws  to  shield  them 

From  the  brutal  acts  of  those 
Who  long  in  abject  bondage  held  them, 

Whose  heart  no  love  nor  pity  knows? 

Those  swarthy  troops,  who  bore  their  rifles, 

And  bravely  fought  the. nation's  foe, 
Regarding  e'en  their  lives  as  trifles 

Compared  with  freedom's  overthrow, 
Won  them  laurels,  and  should  inherit 

The  ballot  as  their  rightful  due ; 
Aye,  should  inherit,  if  deeds  of  merit 

E'er  merit  aught  that's  good  and  true. 


100  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Tis  not  enough,  to  rend  the  fetter; 

Tis  not  enough,  to  part  the  chain — 
The  soldier  merits  something  better — 

A  full  erasure  of  his  stain, 
That  future  years,  in  their  enfolding, 

May  of  those  wrongs  no  vestige  find — 
No  shadowy  clue  to  base  withholding 

Of  human  rights  from  human  kind. 

There  is  no  civil  right  that  can  equal 

The  ballot  in  a  freeman's  hand; 
It  is  the  apex  and  the  sequel 

To  all  that's  noble,  great  and  grand. 
The  poorest  of  the  land  invested 

With  the  ballot,  may  stand  .erect, 
And  pass  this  life  through  unmolested, 

Commanding  ever  a  respect. 

Rescind  all  systems  of  oppression; 

Raise  all  men  to  a  common  plain; 
And  there  will  not  of  vain  secession 

Nor  root,  nor  limb,  nor  branch  remain. 
O !  give  Columbia's  swarthy  subjects — 

The  valiant-hearted  and  the  true — 
A  noble  base  for  future  prospects ; 

Give  them  the  ballot — as  their  due. 

Their  due  for  deeds  of  manly  bearing, 

Whene'er  the  chances  were  revealed, 
And  for  their  brave,  chivalric  daring 

On  many  a  hot-contested  field. 
Give  it  for  victories  won  the  nation, 

And  often,  too,  'gainst  fearful  odds, 
Such  as,  at  times,  to  keep  their  station 

Appeared  a  mystery  to  the  gods. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  101 

Now,  in  four  memories  backward  wander, 
And  near  Fort  Hudson  take  your  stand ; 

Where  you  may  in  safety  ponder 
Upon  the  fearful  and  the  grand. 


Hark !  hark !  that  deafening  sound  pervading 

The  hills  anear  and  hills  afar ; 
Lo !  'tis  the  charge  and  cannonading 

Of  the  veteran  hosts  of  war. 
Look  you  kindly  on  that  battle — 

The  former  slaves  are  in  that  fight! 
They  who  have  herded  long  with  cattle 

Are  warring  for  the  freeman's  right. 

From  off  the  earthworks  of  the  foemen, 

See  how  the  grape  and  bullets  fly — 
Mowing  down  my  hardy  yeomen 

As  doth  the  scythe  the  autumn  rye ; 
But  onward !  onward  !  nothing  daunted, 

Sword  unsheathed  or  hand  on  spring, 
To  where  those  murderous  guns  are  planted, 

Whose  mighty  force  those  missiles  fling. 

Now,  see  them,  as  the  foe  advances, 
With  sabres  drawn,  on  hurried  feet ; 

They  halt,  and  now  they  poise  their  lances, 
And  now  the  fierce  combatants  meet. 

The  former  slave  and  former  master- 
See  how  furiously  they  rave; 

Which  shall  outlive  the  disaster, 
The  master  or  his  former  slave? 


102  BELL'S     POEMS. 

List  to  their  swords  and  sabres  clashing, 

As  slave  confronts  his  tyrant  lord ; 
See !  see  them,  at  each  other  dashing — 

Now,  see  them  writhing  on  the  sward ! 
See  the  struggling ;  hear  the  screaming  ; 

Hear  the  curse  and  hear  the  prayer; 
See  the  crimson  life-tide  streaming 

From  their  sword-points  through  the  air. 

Now  the  blacks  are  beaten  backward — 

Backward  beaten  by  the  foe; 
And  now  again  they  rally  onward; 

On  to  the  breastwork,  on  they  go ! 
The  walls  are  gained,  their  braves  have  scaled 
them ; 

Behold  the  stars  and  stripes  on  high ! 
The  former  masters'  hearts  have  failed  them; 

See !  see !  before  their  slaves  they  fly. 
See  on  the  field  the  dead,  the  wounded — 

Fallen,  fallen  to  rise  no  more ; 
Beside  them,  see  their  sabres  grounded, 

All  reeking  still  with  human  gore. 

And  shall  the  heroes  of  such  battles, 

Who  fought  for  liberty  for  all, 
Again  be  classed  with  goods  and  chattels — 

With  beasts  of  burden  in  the  stall? 
Shall  patriots  have  their  rights  contested, 

And  thereby  forced  to  wear  a  brand, 
While  heartless  rebels  are  invested 

With  all  the  honors  of  the  land  ? 
Ye  men  who  prize  Columbia's  honor ; 

Ye  who  should  guide  her  in  the  right : 
Oh,  suffer -not  this  base  dishonor; 

Let  naught  so  foul  her  glory  blight. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  103 

Remove  your  doubts,  dispel  your  fears, 

And  in  the  right  move  bravely  on; 
For  ere  one  round  decade  of  years 

Have  passed,  full  liberty  shall  dawn. 
Your  every  right  shall  be  obtained, 

And  you  respected  here  shall  be; 
Here  in  this  land,  where  long  enchained, 

You've  worn  the  badge  of  slavery; 
While  here  we  sing  of  liberty 

Upon  this  far-off  western  strand, 
The  soul-inspiring  symphony 

Is  welling  up  o'er  all  the  land. 

For  lo!  Arkansas  doth  rejoice, 
And  Texas  sings  with  cheerful  voice, 
And  Mississippi's  heart  doth  swell, 
And  hail  with  joy  the  rising  knell 
Now  sounding  on  her  gulf -bound  coast — 
The  dirge  of  a  departed  ghost. 
And  Louisiana's  fields  of  cane 
Doth  wave  in  triumph  the  refrain ; 
And  Alabama's  lofty  pines, 
And  Florida's  sweet-scented  vines 
Today  doth  joyously  exhale 
Rich  odors  on  each  passing  gale. 
And  Georgia,  freed  from  every  vice, 
Now  offers  up  her  fields  of  rice — 
And  South  Carolina — first  to  err — 
Repentant  of  the  days  that  were, 
Now  waves  her  chainless  hands  on  high, 
In  praise  of  freedom's  victory. 
And  North  Carolina's  Dismal  Swamp, 
Arrayed  in  rich  and  gorgeous  pomp, 
Doth  hail  with  pride  the  loud  acclaim, 
And  sweetly  sing  in  freedom's  name. 
And  Old  Virginia,  proud  and  grand, 


104  BELL'S     POEMS. 

With  her  fair  sister,  Maryland, 
Doth  chant  the  chorus,  swell  the  song, 
The  which  today  shall  roll  along 
In  paeans  deep,  and  loud,  and  strong, 
O'er  every  hill  and  vale  and  plain 
Throughout  the  land,  from  Gulf  to  Maine, 
And  in  one  grand  halo  of  sound, 
Sweep  fair  Columbia's  distant  bound, 
And  on  the  radiant  wings  of  light 
Soar  upwards  to  the  Infinite, 
And  pour  upon  the  Eternal's  ear 
One  song  and  shout  of  grateful  cheer. 

And  now,  my  muse,  thy  song  resume, 

'Twixt  hope  and  doubt,  'twixt  joy  and  fear, 
Twixt  morning  gray  and  twilight  gloom, 

Along  a  path  nor  dark,  nor  clear — 
Sing  now  of  him  in  high  estate, 

On  whom  is  bent  the  nation's  eye — 
Where  all  her  glories  culminate 

To  form  a  radiance  for  her  sky. 
The  now  incumbent  of  that  chair 

Where  he,  our  good  friend,  sat  before — • 
Has  spoke  full  oft  and  loud  and  clear, 

Within  the  audience  of  the  poor. 

And  poorer  none  than  those  that  wait 
And  feeless  serve  his  native  state — 
A  shoeless,  coatless,  hatless  throng, 

Who  ne'er  have  deemed  the  journey  long, 
If  'twere  to  catch  his  words  and  smiles, 
Between  them  lay  a  score  of  miles ; 
With  hasty  feet  they'd  wend  their  way — 
No  child  in  heart  more  blessed  than  they 
With  but  one  word,  or  e'en  a  look 
From  him  who  had  his  friends  forsook, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  105 

And  stood  apledged  before  high  Heaven, 
That  he  would  see  their  fetters  riven : 
That  he  would  be  their  fathful  guide, 
And  lead  them  past  the  crimson  tide, 
Athrough  the  wilderness  that  lay 
Between  their  night  and  that  bright  day 
Which  shines  forever  on  the  rest 
Of  all  the  worthy,  free  and  blest; 

That  he  their  Moses  would  become 

And  bring  them  to  the  freeman's  home — 

That  he  their  cause  would  ne'er  forsake, 

Nor  his  pledge  nor  promise  break, 

Till  every  bondsman  in  the  land 

Should  on  the  plains  of  freedom  stand — ' 

Pledged  to  the  sacred  cause  of  truth; 

Pledged  in  the  early  days  of  youth ; 

Pledged  by  the  summer,  the  winter  and  spring, 

And  pledged  by  all  that  truth  may  bring. 

And  now,  that  he  sits  in  high  estate 
And  holds  the  interests  of  the  great; 
The  interest  of  the  passing  poor  — 
Their  interest  now  and  evermore 
Within  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
Oh !  will  he,  will  he  firmly  stand  ? 
Or,  in  the  mantlings  of  the  just 
Will  he  betray  his  sacred  trust  ? 

Forbid  it,  Heaven !  O,  Heaven,  forbid ! 
And  moisten  not  the  trusting  lid 
With  scalding  teardrops  from  the  heart, 
Which  needs  must  flow  should  he  depart 
Now,  from  the  sacred  cause  of  truth, 
And  from  the  pledges  of  his  youth. 
To  these,  oh,  may  he  ever  stand ! 


106  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Firm  as  the  mountains  of  his  land ! 
And  from  his  high,  majestic  place, 
Look  favoring  on  an  injured  race, 
And  use  his  Heaven-entrusted  might, 
To  raise  them  from  oppression's  night, 
And  in  this  all-auspicious  hour, 
Invest  them  with  a  freeman's  power: 
Whereby  they  may  themselves  protect 
Against  the  wiles  of  base  neglect, 
And  cause  this  glorious  land  to  be, 
In  fact,  the  home-land  of  the  free. 

Then  shall  mankind  call  him  blest, 
And  when  he  sinks  to  his  quiet  rest, 
From  that  bright,  hoary  autumn,  he  will  look 

back  and  see 
This  broad  land — all  happy  and  free. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  107 


MODERN  MOSES,  OR  "MY  POLICY" 

MAN. 

There  is  a  tide  in  men's  affairs, 
Leading  to  fame  not  wholly  theirs — 
Leading  to  high  positions,  won 
Through  noble  deeds  by  others  done. 
And  crowns  there  are,  and  not  a  few, 
And  royal  robes  and  sceptres,  too, 
That  have,  in  every  age  and  land, 
Been  at  the  option  and  command 
Of  men  as  much  unfit  to  rule, 
As  apes  and  monkeys  are  for  school. 

For  seldom  an   assassin's  blow 

Has  laid  a  benefactor  low 

Of  any  nation,  age  or  clime, 

In  all  the  lengthened  march  of  time, 

That  has  not  raised  to  power  and  .might, 

Some  braggart  knave  or  brainless  wight, 

Whose  acts  unseemly  and  unwise, 

Have  caused  the  people  to  despise 

And  curse  the  hours  of  his  reign, 

And  brand  him  with  the  marks  of  Gain. 

And  yet  to  crown  the  mystery, 

All  these  have  had  a  Policy. 

Though  Cain  was  treach'rous  and  unjust, 
And  smote  a  brother  to  the  dust — 
'Tis  not  of  him  we  wish  to  speak,  - 
Nor  of  the  wife  he  went  to  seek; 
Nor  of  the  blood  his  Nimrod  spilt, 
Or  famous  city  which  he  built. 


108  BELL'S     POEMS. 

But  choose  we  rather  to  discant, 

On  one  whose  swaggish  boast  and  rant, 

And  vulgar  jest,  and  pot-house  slang, 

Has  grown  the  pest  of  every  gang 

Of  debauchees  wherever  found, 

From  Baffin's  Bay  to  Puget  Sound. 

And  yet  he  occupies  a  sphere 

And  fills  a  more  exalted  chair, 

(With  arrogant  unworthiness, 

To  his  disgrace,  I  must  confess), 

Than  any  officer  of  State, 

Or  king,  or  princely  magistrate 

Of  royal  blood  or  noble  birth, 

Throughout  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 

But  how  he  chance  attain  'd  that  hight, 

Amid  the  splendor  and  the  light, 

The  effulgent  glory  and  the  ray 

Of  this  the  nineteenth  century, 

May,  to  the  superficial  mind, 

Seem  much  complexed  and  undefined; 

But  when  the  dark  and  shameless  truth, 

Is  properly  ascribed  to  Booth, 

The  strangeness  vanishes  in  haste, 

And  we  through  murder  stand  disgraced. 

Disgraced!  Perhaps  some  other  word, 

Or  milder  term  should  be  preferred; 

And  if  preferred,  that  term  might  be 

Exposed  to  My  Policy. 

But  there's  a  legend  much  in  vogue, 
The  act  of  some  knave,  wit  or  rogue, 
A  sort  of  fabled  heresy, 
Clothed  in  the  garb  of  prophecy ; 
In  which  'tis  said  that  "in  the  day, 
When  kith  and  kindred  shall  array, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  109 

Their  hostile  armies  and  engage 
In  deadly  contest,  youth  and  age, 
Lo!  from  the  people  shall  arise, 
One  of  the  people  in  disguise; 
A  man  loquacious  in  his  way, 
And  greatly  given  to  display; 
A  self- wrought  garment  he  shall  wear, 
And  beverage  be  his  constant  fare ; 
Akin  his  normal  state  shall  be, 
To  a  ship  unballas'd  and  at  sea. 

And  he  shall  favor  all  that's  mean, 
Or  low,  or  vicious  and  obscene; 
And  pay  to  neither  age  nor  youth, 
A  due  regard,  nor  e'en  to  truth — 
And  he  shall  by  his  subtle  vows, 
Induce  the  people  to  arouse, 
And  bear  him  in  their  confidence, 
Toward  a  lofty  eminence. 
Just  here  occurs  a  short  hiatus, 
And  then  concludes  the  legend  thus — 
And  he  shall  owe  to  tragedy, 
His  zenith  of  felicity; 
And  unto  gross  apostacy, 
The  basis  of  My  Policy." 

But  this  is  so  obtuse,  of  course ; 
No  one  can  really  see  its  force ; 
And  if  they  could,  what  is  there  in  it 
To  claim  attention  for  a  minute — 
Or,  by  which  to  point  the  hand, 
To  him  the  Chief  of  all  the  land? 
In  reason's  name,  in  what  relation 
Could  it  refer  to  his  high  station, 
Unless  some  bloody-handed  fray, 
Had  to  his  office  paved  the  way? 


110  BELL'S     POEMS. 

For  you  and  I  are  well  aware, 

Just  how  he  chanced  obtain  that  chair ; 

For  any  rustic  lad  of  skill, 

Who  knows  the  way  to  the  nearest  mill, 

Would  not  regard  the  thing  a  task, 

But  say  in  substance,  were  he  asked, 

First  and  foully,  through  a  stub  and  twist, 

And  then  as  the  farmer  claims  his  grist, 

By  being  second  on  the  list; 

Why,  'tis  just  as  plain  to  sanity, 

As  the  logic  of  My  Policy. 

But  as  for  Mose,  he  has  been 

And  is  to-day  as  free  from  sin 

As  that  fond  friend  who  kissed  his  Lord, 

In  presence  of  a  Roman  horde. 

Tis  true  he  did  somewhat  disguise 

His  real  intentions,  and  surprise 

The  loyal  voters  of  the  North, 

By  feigning  hatred  to  the  South ; 

Through  which  he  gained  their  confidence, 

And  won  that  lofty  eminence. 

'Tis  said,  and  yet  I  know  not  why, 

His  fingers  wear  a  crimson  dye, 

The  which  retraced,  would  likely  lead 

Aback  to  some  unlawful  deed, 

And  only  back  perhaps,  alas, 

To  constant  pressure  of  the  glass  — 

Or  to  his  deep  intensity, 

Of  interest  in  My  Policy. 

But,  lest  the  treachery  of  the  mind 
Should  chance  forget  a  liege  so  kind, 
We  deem  this  quite  a  fitting  place 
To  draw  a  picture  of  his  grace. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  Ill 

His  age,  since  men  so  far  excel, 
Their  seemings  none  can  rightly  tell ; 
And  some  there  are,  on  earth's  broad  stage, 
Who  do  not  really  know  their  age ; 
Others  who  would  not  like  their's  told, 
Lest  some  gay  flame  should  deem  them  old. 

But  to  the  physiognomy 

Of  him,  my  liege,  My  Policy, 

Of  rather  more  than  medium  size, 

A  blooming  nose  and  hazel  eyes, 

And  mien,  that  one  might  think  him  given 

To  beverage,  morning,  noon  and  even' ; 

And  judge  that  his  proboscis  wore 

Its  crimson  from  the  overstore ; 

For  there  are  some  rare  nectars  known 

And  taken  to  impart  a  tone 

To  the  stomach,  which  will  produce, 

By  repetition  and  abuse, 

The  like  results ;  hence,  many  think 

His  glow  the  sad  effects  of  drink ; 

Others,  more  prone  to  charity, 

Ascribe  it  to  My  Policy. 

'Tis  said  he  wonders  why  it  is, 
That  all  the  land  makes  such  a  phiz, 
And  why  they  keep  in  strict  reserve, 
A  shield  for  the  olfactory  nerve; 
When  e'er  My  Policy  is  brought 
Within  the  radius  of  their  thought. 

They  surely  do  not  see  the  point, 
But  act  as  though  some  out-of-joint 
Machine  had  gained  the  track, 
And  now  was  keeping  progress  back. 


112  BELL'S     POEMS. 

O,  is  it  not  a  burning  shame, 
That  any  folks  with  such  a  name 
For  science  and  philosophy, 
To  thus  regard  My  Policy. 

Sumner  he  claims  is  much  at  fault, 
And  Stevens  plotting  a  revolt 
Of  Congress  'gainst  the  President, 
And  'gainst  his  noble  sentiment — 
With  which  e'en  Davis  doth  agree, 
And  all  his  learned  constituency; 
Hence,  Sumner  must  not  there  remain, 
And  Stevens'  might  we  ought  restrain, 
And  Phillips  should  not  be  allowed 
To  exercise  before  the  crowd, 
His  foul  bombastic  heresy, 
In  variance  to  My  Policy. 

His  life  he  deems  quite  insecure, 

And  such  a  thought  long  to  endure, 

Is  torturous  in  the  extreme, 

And  breeds  full  many  a  fitful  dream. 

He  fears  some  hireling  knave  may  prove 

Recreant  to  pretended  love, 

And  give  for  brandy,  water  instead, 

And  thus  consign  him  to  the  dead, 

With  all  his  virtue  on  his  head. 

His  friends  have  counseled  'gainst  alarm, 

And  'gainst  all  apprehended  harm, 

And  well  they  might,  since  few  are  more 

From  hurt  and  violence  secure. 

For  those  who  practice  lawless  deed, 

And  on  the  life  of  virtue  feed, 

Are  not  accounted  with  his  foes, 

But  now  and  e'er  have  been  of  those 


BELL'S     POEMS.  113 

Who  would  through  nameless  years  protract 
His  office  and  his  life  intact — 
The  dauntless  sons  of  chivalry, 
Who  glory  in  My  Policy. 

'Tis  said,  that  in  the  days  agone, 

He  pledged  himself  to  the  forlorn; 

He  pledged  himself  the  bondsman's  friend, 

And  one  on  whom  they  might  depend 

For  counsel,  succor  or  redress, 

In  all  their  hours  of  wretchedness, 

And  swore  that  he  would  be  their  guide, 

And  lead  them  past  the  crimson  tide, 

And  through  the  wilderness  that  lay 

Between  their  night  and  that  blest  day 

That  shines  forever  on  the  rest 

Of  all  the  worthy,  free  and  blest; 

That  he  their  Moses  would  become, 

And  lead  them  to  a  freeman's  home 

And  swore  that  he  would  ne'er  forsake 

Them,  nor  his  pledge  or  promise  break, 

Till  every  bondsman  in  the  land 

Should  on  the  plains  of  freedom  stand. 

Pledged  to  the  sacred  cause  of  truth ; 
Pledged  in  the  early  days  of  youth; 
Pledged  by  the  summer,  winter,  spring, 
And  pledged  by  all  the  truth  may  bring; 
With  all  these  pledges  on  his  soul, 
And  clothed  with  power  to  control 
The  future  destiny  of  those, 
His  wards  by  all  his  recent  oaths. 

Mark  well  his  action  when  for  aid 
Their  suppliant  prayer  to  him  was  made? 
Witness  an  instance  of  his  love, 
And  all  your  former  doubts  remove. 


114  BELL'S     POEMS. 

Mark  when  that  bill  for  the  supply 

Of  starving  millions  met  his  eye; 

A  breadless,  clotheless,  houseless  throng, 

Thus  rendered  by  his  nation's  wrong. 

Does  he  the  bill  in  haste  receive 

And  sign,  their  sufFrings  to  relieve? 

Yes,  if  withholding  of  the  cup 
From  parched  lips,  whereof  one  sup 
Would  quite  allay  an  inward  pain, 
And  quite  restore  to  health  again 
A  prostrate  mortal,  doomed  to  die, 
Unless  his  needs  met  swift  supply, 
Can  be  accounted  as  relief — 
Then  he  in  their  deep  hour  of  grief, 
Did  them  relieve  and  kept  his  vow ; 
When  with  a  dark  and  wrinkled  brow, 
He  stamped  his  veto  on  their  prayer, 
And  doomed  the  suppliants  to  despair. 

O,  what  a  "Moses"  he  has  been ! 
How  strenuously  against  the  sin 
Of  his  fathers  he  has  fought ; 
And  how  ingeniously  besought 
The  nation  in  this  trying  hour, 
To  invest  with  all  their  wonted  power 
Our  late  rebellious,  loving  foes, 
To  whom  for  all  our  recent  woes, 
Our  wasted  treasure,  wasted  lives, 
Our  orphaned  children,  widowed  wives, 
Our  prostrate  cities,  deserted  farms, 
And  all  the  joys  of  wars  alarms, 
We  are  most  deeply  debtors  all, 
And  in  meek  gratitude  should  fall 
Prostrate  before  them  in  the  dust, 
And  yield  the  nation  to  their  trust ; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  115 

And  to  enforce  the  reason  why, 
That  we  should  not  this  boon  deny, 
Propounds  with  matchless  dignity, 
His  ineffable — My  Policy. 

Schooled  in  his  childhood  to  regard 
Foul  treason  worthiest  of  reward, 
And  loyalty  an  empty  name, 
Meriting  dark  reproach  and  shame; 
Therefore,  he  deems  the  rebels  more 
Worthy  positions  than  before; 
Before  their  nameless  deeds  of  horror 
Spread  o'er  our  land  the  veil  of  sorrow ; 
And  fain  would  from  the  very  scurf, 
E'en  as  from  the  rising  surf 
Of  rebeldom,  at  once  create 
Grand  officers  of  high  estate, 
And  bring  them  to  the  nation's  court, 
His  grave  My  Policy  to  support. 

'Tis  said  the  clergy  everywhere, 
Have  held  up  holy  hands  in  prayer 
For  his  redemption  from  the  thrall, 
And  pit  of  his  apostate  fall; 
But  recently  by  dream  or  word, 
Have  been  most  signally  assured, 
That  there  are  no  blest  agencies 
Of  grace,  outside  the  promises, 
And  in  that  almost  boundless  plan, 
Salvation  offered  unto  man, 
Are  no  provisions  that  embrace 
A  proffered  pardon  in  his  case ; 
That  it  were  madness  to  bewail, 
Since  all  their  efforts  can  but  fail ; 
For  he,  to  use  a  term  uncivil, 
Has  long  been  mortgaged  to  the  Devil ; 


116  BELL'S     POEMS. 

But  the  fact  which  no  one  knows, 

Is  why  the  deuce  he  don't  foreclose. 

Perhaps  he  entertains  a  doubt, 

And  fears  that  Mose  might  turn  him  out ; 

Hence,  His  Satanic  Majesty's 

Endorsement  of  My  Policy. 


He  claims  that  suffrage,  if  applied 
To  Negroes,  should  be  qualified ; 
That  they  diplomacied,  should  hail 
From  Dartmouth,  Harvard  or  from  Yale, 
Before  entrusted  for  an  hour 
With  manhood's  great  elective  power. 


But  every  rebel  in  the  land, 
From  Maine  to  Georgia's  distant  strand ; 
Though  dark  their  minds  as  rayless  night, 
Should  exercise  this  manly  right, 
Though  destitute  of  reason's  force 
As  Balaam's  ancient  riding  horse : 
On  these  the  boon  he  would  confer, 
.Without  a  scruple  or  demur, 
Because  these  gentlemen,  quoth  he, 
Are  members  of  My  Policy. 


His  vetoes — gracious  !  what  a  list ! 
Never  in  time  did  there  exist 
Such  an  array  of  negative, 
Bombastic  and  explanative; 
'Tis  said  their  reasons  are  profound, 
Their  logic  almost  passing  sound ; 
And  that  such  lucid  rays  they  shed, 
They're  understood  before  they're  read. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  117 

The  Bureau  Bill  is  deemed  the  first 
Of  numerous  acts,  by  him  reversed ; 
The  power  that  bill  sought  to  confer 
On  him,  provoked  his  just  demur, 
And  for  this  strange,  unlikely  fault, 
His  meekness  rose  in  fierce  revolt, 
And  flamed  with  wrath  and  power  to  kill, 
He  hurled  his  veto  at  the  bill; 
For  actions  of  humanity, 
Accord  not  with  My  Policy. 

He  next  reversed  the  bill  of  rights, 

Lest  all  the  girls — that  is  the  \vhites — 

Should  Desdemonia's  become, 

And  fly  each  one  her  cherished  home, 

And  take  to  heart  some  sooty  moor, 

As  Fathers  did  in  days  before. 

If  but  the  legal  right  were  given, 

He  fears  that  six  in  every  seven 

Of  all  the  maids  in  all  the  land, 

Would  give  the  matrimonial  hand 

Unto  some  swarthy  son  or  other, 

And  some,  perhaps,  might  wed  a  brother. 

This  horrid  thought  his  wrath  excites, 

And  swearing  'gainst  all  "woman's  rights," 

He  grasped  the  veto  in  his  ire, 

And  doomed  the  bill  to  endless  fire; 

For  all  such  reciprocity, 

Was  foreign  to  My  Policy. 

This  ghost-like  thought  preyed  on  his  soul, 

And  robbed  him  of  all  self  control, 

Till  from  his  fears,  lest  they  obtain, 

He  got  the  veto  on  the  brain ; 

The  inflated  type,  the  very  worst, 

With  which  a  mortal  e'er  was  cursed. 


118  BELL'S     POEMS. 

And  hence,  when  e'er  an  act  is  brought, 
For  which  his  signature  is  sought, 
How  plain  soever  the  device, 
He  fancies  that  he  "smells  a  mice," 
And  forthwith  runs  the  trap  to  bring 
My  Policy,  and  sets  the  spring, 
And  waits  with  pain-suspended  cough, 
To  see  the  curious  thing  go  off. 

And  when  the  fancied  mouse  is  caught 
Within  his  fancied  trap  of  thought, 
To  hear  him  in  that  frenzied  laugh, 
And  see  that  full  three-fingered  quaff 
Pass  down  the  lining  of  his  throat, 
And  find  a  lodgment  'neath  his  coat, 
Would  crimson  o'er  the  cheek  with  shame, 
And  send  a  tremor  through  the  frame, 
The  which  would  cause  the  heart  to  yield 
To  poignant  truth  so  oft  revealed, 
And  in  that  act  confess  they  see 
The  secrets  of  My  Policy. 

The  little  giant  of  the  West— 

His  labor  done,  was  laid  to  rest, 

And  to  eternalize  his  fame, 

And  thus  immortalize  his  name, 

Moses,  with  vassals  of  renown, 

Comes  swinging  past  from  town  to  town; 

And  makes  a  quite  imposing  tour, 

Save  that  he  proves  himself  a  boor 

At  divers  times  in  divers  ways, 

All  through  his  eagerness  for  praise, 

For  e'en  despite  the  peerless  Grant, 

And  monument  he  came  to  plant, 

All  those  that  were  not  wholly  blind, 

Could  see  he  had  an  axe  to  grind; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  119 

The  monument  was  but  a  ruse, 

A  subtle  means  to  introduce 

My  liege  of  graceless  dignity, 

The  author  of  My  Policy. 

Tis  said  that  he  at  times  would  come 

To  cities  which  were  not  "to  home," 

From  which  long  ere  the  pageant  closed.. 

The  peerless  Grant  grew  indisposed, 

And  to  the  banks  of  Erie's  Lake, 

Repaired  for  reputation's  sake. 

But  be  this  statement  false  or  true, 

It  has  the  smallest  part  to  do 

With  the  matter  of  fact  at  hand, 

Which  is  this,  when  through  the  land 

He'd  gone  and  played  the  knave  and  clown, 

In  every  city,  village,  town, 

And  felt  My  Policy  was  sure 

To  win  by  virtue  of  the  tour, 

The  people  rise  in  mass  and  vote, 

And  thus  most  signally  denote 

By  their  vote  and  by  their  voice, 

And  by  the  subjects  of  their  choice, 

That  they  had  blindly  failed  to  see 

The  beauties  of  My  Policy. 

Hence,  when  the  massive  cavalcade 
Swung  round  and  round  in  grand  parade, 
With  much  chagrin,  they're  all  dispensed, 
Just  where  their  fruitless  tour  commenced. 
'Tis  said  that  Moses  had  a  dream, 
The  which  has  been  his  constant  theme 
Of  thought,  and  converse  ever  since, 
It  seems  as  though  he  can't  convince 
Himself  that  there  in  truth  is  not 
Some  pre-arranged,  mischievous  plot 


120  BELL'S     POEMS. 

In  embryo,  a  thing  accursed ; 
And  yet,  ere  long  destined  to  burst 
On  him  and  from  his  famed  renown 
And  apec  glory,  drag  him  down  ; 
Though  but  a  dream,  'twas  so  akin 
Unto  a  fact  that  should  have  been, 
And  because  he  does  not  know 
But  what  it  really  may  be  so, 
And  like  the  general  that  was  "lame," 
Who  started  ere  the  foeman  came, 
Has  suddenly  become  distres't 
With  pains  and  achings  in  the  breast — 
'Tis  said  when  night  had  laid  him  down 
(His  sainted  form)  in  sleep  profound, 
There  stole  athwart  his  fevered  brain 
A  dream  which  caused  his  spirit  pain ; 

It  seemed  that  'reft  of  every  doubt, 

His  myriad  sins  had  found  him  out, 

And  charged  with  numerous  crimes  and  blood, 

Before  the  bar  he  trembling  stood, 

And  heard  he  all  the  evidence, 

The  prosecution  and  defense, 

And  heard  the  verdict  of  the  court, 

And  felt  the  truth  of  their  report; 

But  that  which  seemed  to  pain  him  most, 

And  deepest  heartfelt  anguish  cost, 

Was  not  to  find  the  charge  sustained, 

But  'twas  to  find  himself  constrained 

Forthwith  to  abdicate  and  be 

A  martyr  to  My  Policy.- 

The  mansion  rose  in  all  its  pride, 
With  all  its  sweetness  multiplied 
Its  grand  exterior,  spotless  white, 
A  nation's  glory  and  delight — 


BELL'S     POEMS.  121 

Its  massive  portals  swinging  round, 

Without  a  jar  or  grating  sound — 

Its  Brussels  carpet,  velvet  chairs, 

Downy  couches,  levees  and  fairs, 

O,  from  such  rare  joys  to  part, 

It  seemed  as  though  'twould  break  his  heart. 

What  next  occasioned  much  regret, 
Was  the  receptions  which  he  met; 
For  while  he  knew  full  many  there, 
Not  one  but  with  a  scornful  air, 
Spurned  on  him  as  they  passed  him  by, 
As  though  they  feared  in  coming  nigh 
Contamination  might  ensue, 
And  they  grow  leprosied  and  untrue; 
Such  ingrate  acts  were  rather  more 
Than  he  could  bear  His  cup  ran  o'er, 
And  streaming  down  his  blooming  face, 
He  felt  the  hot  tears  of  disgrace ; 

He  thought  of  Willy,  and  ran  in  haste, 

But  found  that  he  had  been  displaced ; 

He  next  sought  Revey,  Vail  and  Wood, 

But  found  them  in  a  sullen  mood, 

Red-eyed  and  swollen,  as  though  the  three 

Had  been  in  perfect  sympathy ; 

Before  them  sat  a  demijohn, 

Partly  filled  and  partly  gone — 

'Twas  quite  enough ;  he'd  found  the  place, 

He  held  the  huge  thing  to  his  face, 

Till  through  his  hands  it  slipped  and  broke, 

And  springing  forward,  he  awoke 

And  found  himself  stretched  on  the  floor, 

And  loudly  rapping  at  the  door 

Were  wardens,  whom  from  sleep  profound, 

Had  been  affrighted  by  the  sound ; 


122  BELL'S    POEMS. 

And  to  each  other  wildly  calling, 
To  learn  what  ponderous  thing  had  fallen. 
"Go  way,''  from  the  within  was  said, 
"No  one  is  hurt — confound  that  bed;" 
Then  gathering  up  his  graceless  form, 
Exhausted  some,  and  somewhat  worn, 
And  opening  wide  his  hazel  eyes, 
And  gazing  round  in  glad  surprise, 
Poured  on  the  night's  tranquility, 
This  strange  and  marked  soliloquy— 

"Can  these  bright  scenes  belie  their  seeming? 

What  means  all  this — have  I  been  dreaming? 

Surely,  this  is  the  mansion  still, 

Despite  their  numerous  threats  of  ill ; 

Despite  him  and  his  numerous  wiles, 

I'm  still  the  heir  of  fortune's  smiles, 

Despite  them  and  their  myriad  threats, 

Their  aimless,  soulless  epithets; 

I  am  still  the  President 

Of  proud  Columbia's  vast  extent." 

And  forthwith  from  his  breast  a  flask 
He  drew,  and  stripped  it  of  its  mask, 
All  sparkling  to  its  very  fill, 
A  goodly  half-pint,  less  a  gill, 
The  which  in  oriental  style, 
Dispatched  he  at  a  single  smile; 
Then  threw  the  needless  flask  aside, 
And  with  a  pompous  look  of  pride, 
And  seeming  consequential  air, 
He  sank  into  an  easy  chair, 
And  gravely  mused  upon  the  past, 
And  mused  on  subjects  far  too  vast, 
Except  for  some  learned  debauchee, 
Or  adept  in  My  Policy. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  123 

O,  were  i  but  a  dramatist, 
What  stores  of  thought  I  would  enlist 
What  telling  words  I  would  indite, 
And  what  a  play  my  pen  should  write 
I'd  hie  me  to  the  nation's  dome; 
Amid  its  splendors  I  would  roam, 
Discant  on  palace,  hall  and  court, 
And  on  the  nation's  grave  support, 
Until  I  placed  upon  the  stage 
The  grandest  burlesque  of  the  age ; 

''Moses  !  Moses!"  should  be  my  theme ; 
Not  He  that  through  the  crimson  stream 
Led  out  from  Egypt  Israel's  host; 
But  "our  Mose"  of  rant  and  boast, 
Who  from  the  nation's  balcony, 
Cajoled  a  drunken  revelry, 
In  telling  words  of  pothouse  lore, 
The  which  had  ne'er  been  heard  before, 
Since  Kidd,  the  terror  of  the  wave, 
Placed  men's  life-chart  within  the  grave. 

Oh,  Demosthenes !  in  silence  rest 

Henceforth  "our  Mose"  shall  be  the  test 

Of  all  oratorical  display, 

And  for  a  sample,  by  the  way, 

Witness  his  chaste  and  classic  art, 

In  his  description  of  sweetheart, 

And  Penny  nibbling  at  his  heels, 

And  then  how  graphic  he  reveals 

His  wond'rous  buncombe,  and  his  pluck, 

In  that  grave  story  of  the  duck. 

And  when  you  have  read,  O  think  of  the  stage, 

And  the  wonderful  star  of  a  wonderful  age ! 


124  BELL'S    POEMS. 


PREFACE. 

The  wonderful  change  that  has  taken  place 
in  the  political  character  of  the  United  States,  in 
the  last  ten  years,  is  well  calculated  to  excite  the 
Poetic  feelings  of  any  man  having  a  spark  of 
Poesy  in  him. 

The  march  of  events  have  been  peculiarly  ro- 
mantic, outstripping  all  human  expectations,  and 
leaving  even  prophecy  in  the  rear. 

The  present  Poem  is  given  to  the  public  with 
the  hope  of  perpetuating,  to  some  extent,  the 
remembrance  of  the  "good  time,"  and  of  send- 
ing to  the  future  some  little  knowledge  of  the 
trials,  struggles,  and  triumph  of  Liberty  in  our 
land. 

The  Author  felt  his  incompetency  to  do  justice 
to  the  task — it,  being  an  unexplored  field — but -he 
has  opened  the  way,  and  leaves  to  others  the  duty 
of  following,  if  they  will. 

This  Poem  was  written  during  hours  snatched 
from  other  occupations.  Still,  we  send  it  forth, 
confident  that  the  theme  of  which  it  treats,  and 
the  earnest  sincerity  of  the  Author,  will  win  for 
it  the  public  approbation.  It  is  a  statement  of 
facts — not  fiction — and,  gentle  reader,  we  ask  you 
to  follow  it  to  the  close,  trusting  it  may  nerve 
you  anew  for  the  right,  and  -  encourage  you  in 
the  cause  of  humanity. 

HON.  JOHN  D.  RICHARDS. 

DETROIT,  MICHIGAN. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  125 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIBERTY. 

TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY 

HENRY   P.    BALDWIN, 

Governor  of  the  State  of  Michigan, 

As  a  slight  testimonial  to  his  generosity  of  heart  and 

nobleness  of  mind,  the  following  Poem 

is  most  respectfully  inscribed. 

That  truth,  than  fiction,  is  more  strange, 

There's  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt, 
When  we  regard  the  wondrous  change 

One  short  decade  has  brought  about. 
The  leopard  may  have  changed  his  spots, 

Or  the  Ethiop  changed  his  skin, 
And  would  far  less  excelled  our  thoughts, 

Than  those  great  changes  which  have  been. 
For  nought  exists  in  earth  or  air 

Or  ocean's  depths  of  endless  shade, 
With  which  we  justly  can  compare 

The  changes  of  the  last  decade. 

Had  one  deep-skilled  in  mystic  lore, 

Some  favored  heir  or  providence, 
Proclaimed  abroad  from  door  to  door 

The  last  decade;'s  unborn  events, 
The  multitudes  who  may  have  heard 

His  auguries,  though  chastely  clad, 
Would  have  pronounced  them  most  absurd, 

And  their  prognostic  author  mad. 
Or,  had  an  angel  of  the  sky 

Left  for  a  time  his  watch  and  ward, 
And  from  some  towering  mountain  high 

Cried  mightily,  thus  saith  the  Lord! 


126  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Columbia's  sons,  a  million  strong 

Shall  panoply  themselves  for  war, 
And  o'er  their  hills  and  vales  ere  long 

To  battle  rush  from  "near  and  far! 
The  century  bound  and  fettered  slave 

Shall  grasp  the  hilt  of  freedom's  sword 
And  rush  amid  the  struggling  brave 

And  write  his  liberties  restored; 
He  shall  have  faith  where  others  doubt 

And  onward  press  to  lead  the  van, 
Till  slavery's  stain  he  washes  out 

In  treason's  gore,  and  stands  a  man. 

And  ere  one  full  decade  has  passed 
The  land  redeemed  shall  proudly  see, 

Of  slavery's  relics  e'en  the  last 

Engulfed  in  freedom's  boundless  sea. 

Would  we  have  deemed  the  message  true 

Brought  by  the  heavenly  ward  so  near, 
And  gave  to  it  that  reverence  due 

A  message  from  the  glory  sphere? 
We  might  have  lent  a  patient  ear 

And  thus  the  message  have  received, 
We  might  have  felt  a  sense  of  fear 

But  never  would  our  hearts  believed : 

It  would  have  been  impossible, 
So  wedded  were  we  to  the  wrong, 

Our  hearts  had  grown  invulnerable 
To  all  appeals  however  strong. 

No  message  sent  from  hell  or  heaven, 
Brought  by  the  living  or  the  dead, 

Could  e'er  the  mighty  spell  have  riven 
By  which  dark  wrong  and  we  were  wed 


BELL'S     POEMS.  127 

Our  natures  had  been  schooled  to  look 

Adversely  on  each  phrase  of  right, 
Until  our  hearts  could  proudly  brook 

The  truth  made  bare  in  reason's  light — 

For  error's  potent  chords  had  twined 

About  our  hearts  from  early  age, 
Till  like  the  tillers  of  the  mind 

Our  guides  were  they  in  every  stage — 
We  could  not  comprehend  the  thought, 

That  freedom  was  of  native  mold, 
Heaven  inspired  and  heaven  taught 

Which  neither  chains  nor  cells  can  hold: 
Therefore  we  could  not  reconcile 

The  seeming  gross  absurdity, 
That  he,  the  slave  and  long  reviled, 

Nursed  yet  the  germs  of  liberty. 

If  not  how  could  he  rise  above 

His  present  status  of  disgrace, 
Or  what  incentive  could  him  move 

The  all  auspicious  to  embrace? 
But  changes  of  the  recent  past 

Have  swept  our  theories  away, 
And  crowned  with  wonders  unsurpassed 

The  radiant  glories  of  to-day. 


WITHIN  the  lapse  of  one  decade 
More  history  we  have  lived  and  made 
Than  during  all  the  years  before, 
Since  first  our  fathers  sped  them  o'er 
The  deep  blue  ocean's  heaving  breast, 
And  came  to  this  proud  land,  the  West. 


128  BELL'S    POEMS. 

And  we  have  grown  in  moral  hight 
When  viewed  by  heaven's  or  freedom's  light, 
More  in  these  years  a  thousand  fold 
Than  during  all  the  years  of  old. 

One  decade  back  and  every  eye 
That  scann'd  us  closely  saw  the  lie, 
And  turned  from  our  spread  banner's  face 
To  men  in  chains,  and  cried  disgrace, 
And,  hissing,  pointed  with  disdain 
At  Freedom   forging  slavery's  chain. 
One  decade  back  and  slavery's  beck 
Alike  held  State  and  Church  in  check, 
How  grave  or  trivial  the  affair 
On  no  account  would  either  dare 
To  move  one  hair-breadth  in  extent 
Till  clothed  with  his  august  consent — 
When  e'er  he  waved  his  Sceptered  hand 
The  mighty  millions  of  our  land 
Were  rilled  with  wonderment  and  awe 
And  eager  to  obey  his  law- 
He  stamped  his  foot,  and  Liberty 
Trembled  as  doth  the  aspen  tree, 
When  old  Boreas  from  his  cave, 
Begirt  with  wrath  comes  forth  to  rave. 

The  court,  to  do  him  honor,  made 

Him  a  license  to  invade 

The  lowly  cot  and  palace  dome, 

And  sacred  precincts  of  each  home, 

Where  ever  found  upon  our  soil 

In  quest  of  his  assumptive  spoil. 

And  men  who  ranked  in  high  estate 

Would  breathless  on  his  bidding  wait, 

And  all  our  proud  official  corps, 

Like  blood-hounds,  ran  from  door  to  door, 


BELL'S     POEMS.  129 

And  often  forced  their  presence  where 
E'en  decency  would  cry  forbear; 
And  all  for  what?  Why,  simply 
This,  and  nothing  more — Liberty ! 
Innate  and  deathless  as  the  soul 
Had  swelled  beyond  the  chains  control, 
And  e'en  inspired  the  base  born  slave 
To  seek  for  freedom  or  the  grave. 

Our  prisons,  too,  whose  chief  intent 
Was  crime  to  punish  and  prevent, 
Became  the  slave-pens  of  the  land, 
To  which  the  Tyrant  of  the  brand 
To  check-mate  human  liberty 
Held  in  his  grasp  both  lock  and  key. 

Besides  all  this,  a  hoary  sage, 

A  highly  honored  legal  chief 
Just  passing  from  this  earthly  stage, 

Gave  this  as  his  profound  belief: 

"Blacks  have  no  rights,  not  life  except, 
Which  bind  the  white  man  to  respect." 

This  formed  the  climax  of  support 

Which  slavery  drew  from  Freedom's  Court. 

While  thus  the  Court  strained  every  nerve 

Her  wonted  fealty  to  preserve, 

The  Church  was  not  a  whit  behind ; 

For  she,  with  all  her  strength  combined, 

Was  moving  earth  and  fiends  and  hell 

In  order  that  she  might  excel 

The  baseness  of  the  Court,  and  rise 

Pre-eminent  in  Slavery's  eyes. 

To  do  him  honor  prelates  came 

Of  nearly  every  creed  and  name, 


130  BELL'S    POEMS. 

All  decked  in  sacerdotal  gear, 
Each  rivaling  each  as  to  appear, 
While  void  of  ostentatious  pride, 
Most  potent,  grave  and  dignified. 

And  each  to  Court  his  reverence  bowed, 
And  prayed  to  him  both  long  and  loud ; 
And  temples  reared  they  in  his  name, 
And  grand  memorials  to  his  fame, 
Whose  every  brick  and  massive  stone 
Was  purchased  with  a  human  bone, 
And  all  the  mortar  'twixt  their  layers 
Was  mingled  flesh  and  blood  and  tears 
'Of  captives  whom  dark  wrong  had  slain 
To  rear  up  Slavery's  Godless  fain. 
And  thus  with  rant  hypocrisy 
And  sacrilegious  blasphemy, 
The  Church  sought  to  surpass  the  Court 
In  crowning  slavery  with  support 
Oh,  if  the  cheek  was  ever  flushed 
Of  devils,  then  they  must  have  blushed 
At  these  base  scenes  of  mammon  greed 
Which  hell  itself  could  scarce  exceed! 
For  there,  midst  all  this  mock  display, 
This  scowl  upon  the  face  of  day, 
The  truth  lay  prostrate,  and  the  right 
Was  chained  and  gagged,  while  reason's  light 
Shone  like  a  taper  in  a  tomb, 
And  half  extinguished  by  the  gloom. 
Oh!  ne'er  did  goodly  land  thus  sink 
As  ours  so  near  to  ruin's  brink. 

Our  fathers  might  have  wept,  and  did, 
If  earthly  scenes  are  not  all  hid 
From  eyes  of  those  blest  ones  who  stand 
Or  near  or  far  in  glory  land. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  131 

But  unto  God  that's  ever  near, 
The  righteous  are  His  special  care ; 
And  in  our  land  there  were  a  few 
Firm  friends  of  Freedom,  tried  and  true. 
A  few  who  ne'er  had  bowed  the  knee 
Nor  sacrificed  to  Slavery; 

A  faithful,  zealous  noble  band. 
The  salt  and  savors  of  our  land, 
Whose  meritorious  deeds  should  blaze 
In  letters  of  undying  praise. 
But  while  we  thus  them  all  revere, 
Of  two  we'd  fain  make  mention  here. 

ONE  decatle  back  there  lived  a  man, 
A  strict,  unswerving  Puritan; 
And  though  as  brave  as  Ammon's  son, 
No  gods  had  he  to  serve  but  one, 
The  God  of  Justice,  God  of  Truth, 
Whom  he  had  served  from  early  youth. 

His  heart  was  not  inured  to  wrong, 
Though  he  had  seen  and  felt  it  long ; 
Yet  had  he  oft  implored  the  time 
When  there  should  be  an  end  to  crime, 
When  Truth  should  rise,  assert  her  claim, 
And  wrong  sink  down  to  whence  it  came. 

At  length  he  grew  to  feel  inspired 
To  what  his  heart  had  long  desired, 
To  strike  one  blow  for  Liberty, 
Where  it  should  end  in  victory; 
Though  he  should  perish  in  the  deed, 
He  felt  that  he  could  plant  the  seed 
From  which  the  harvest  would  arise, 
And  shrank  not  from  the  sacrifice ; 


132  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Him  call  enthusiast,  if  you  will, 
Fanatic,  or  something  wilder  still, 
It  will  not  blur  his  deathless  name, 
Nor  bar  his  onward  march  to  fame. 

For  when  he  felt  the  hour  had  come 
He  left  his  fair  North  Elba  home 
And  with  e'en  less  than  a  score  of  men, 
Went  forth,  and  -in  the  very  den 
And  citadel  of  Slavery 
Unsheathed  his  sword  for  Liberty. 

This,  this  was  old  John  Brown,  the  brave 
Whom  great  Virginia  hanged,  to  save 
Through  sacrifice  to  Slavery, 
Her  panic  stricken  chivalry. 
For  from  the  night  on  which  he  made 
Their  State  the  center  of  his  raid, 
Until  the  law  pronounced  him  dead, 
Of  him  they  lived  in  constant  dread. 

Although  confined  within  a  cell, 
By  many  a  bolt  and  lock  as  well, 
And  prostrate  on  a  fevered  cot, 
Through  consequences  ill-begot, 
From  care  and  pain  and  loss  of  blood, 
And  from  the  much  he  had  withstood, 
Besides  all  this,  of  armed  men, 
To  guard  that  ancient  veteran, 
A  regiment  were  scattered  round, 
All  o'er  that  half  enchanted  ground, 
Lest  he  should  from  his  mat  of  straw, 
Come  forth  and  by  his  presence  awe, 
And  terrify  e'en  unto  death 
Famed  Chivalry's  half-suspended  breath. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  133 

Although  like  Sampson  he  was  ta'en, 
And  by  the  base  Philistines  slain, 
Yet  he  in  death  accomplished  more 
Than  e'er  he  had  in  life  before. 
His  noble  heart,  which  ne'er  had  failed, 
Proved  firm,  and  e'en  in  death  prevailed ; 
And  many  a  tear  drop  dimmed  the  eye 
Of  e'en  his  foes  who  saw  him  die — 
And  none  who  witnessed  that  foul  act 
Will  e'er  in  life  forget  the  fact. 


'Twas  on  a  clear  December  day, 
So  mild  it  seemed,  that  gentle  May 
Had,  in  respect  for  that  dread  hour, 
Donated  one  from  her  sweet  bower. 
No  clouds  were  seen  in  all  the  sky, 
Save  one,  and  that  was  hovering  nigh, 
As  though  its  mission  was  to  screen 
From  angels'  ken  the  awful  scene. 
For  when  upon  the  scaffold  bare, 
The  hero  stood,  that  cloud  was  there, 
But  when  the  throng  pronounced  him  dead 
That  mvstic  cloud  and  screen  had  fled. 


His  lifeless  form  his  friends  besought, 
And  far,  far  from  that  wretched  spot, 
And  from  those  scenes  of  suffering 
To  which  such  dreadful  memories  cling, 
And  to  a  freer,  purer  soil, 
Uncursed  by  sweat  of  unpaid  toil, 
And  to  an  unfrequented  nook, 
Whereon  no  craven  eye  may  look, 
Where  Freedom  doth  her  vigil  keep, 
They  laid  him  down  to  dreamless  sleep. 


134  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Scarce  had  his  friend  in  calm  repose 

Entombed  his  form,  when  there  arose 

A  restless  spirit,  which  obtained 

Where  e'er  of  liberty  remained, 

A  single  spark  of  honest  thought, 

Too  sacred  to  be  sold  or  bought. 

And  thus  the  truths  for  which  he  died 

Spread  everywhere,  and  multiplied, 

And  rolled  on  like  a  foaming  sea, 

Until  the  Sons  of  Liberty 

In  all  their  majesty  came  forth, 

And  styled  themselves  the  mighty  North; 

And  from  their  ranks  selected  one, 

An  unassuming  woodman's  son, 

Who  bore  their  standard  midst  the  feud, 

And  mighty  contest  which  ensued. 

He  was  from  nature's  plastic  mold, 
Wrhat  kings  and  mighty  men  of  old 
Through  lengthened  years  of  toil,  in  vain 
Had  sought  and  striven  to  attain; 
All  that  a  language  could  express 
Of  noble-hearted   faithfulness. 
There  was  no  grace  he  did  not  court, 
Nor  blemish  in  his  manly  port, 
Tall,  and  of  commanding  form 
And  Heaven  ordained  to  rule  the  storm. 
There  was  a  calm  serenity, 

A  kind,  persuasive,  artless  art 
Pervading  the  Divinity 

Which  filled  his  great  and  manly  heart. 

All  manly  forms  that  graced  his  sight, 
He  deemed  them  men  or  black  or  white ; 
He  bowed  to  all  with  deference, 
And  won  a  world  of  reverence. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  135 

He  was  that  Son  of  Liberty, 
Whose  Heaven-approved  fidelity 
Made  every  act  of  his  sublime. 
And  safely  might  we  challenge  Time, 
With  his  deep,  enveloped  page, 
The  annals  of  a  nameless  age, 
To  bring  forth  one  of  purer  mold, 
Or  one  who  had  a  stronger  hold 
Upon  his  country's  throbbing  heart, 
Then  he  whose  native,  artless  art 
Has  carved  his  own  undying  name 
Upon  the  deathless  scroll  of  fame. 

Need  I  here  that  name  pronounce, 

Where  if  each  heart  would  speak  at  once, 

The  glorious,  grand  response  would  be 

"Lincoln,  the  friend  of  Liberty!" 

If  Fame's  all  glorious  scroll  were  lost, 

And  there  remained  the  merest  ghost 

Of  all  the  present,  of  all  the  past, 

If  deathless  liberty  could  last, 

Her  share  of  glory  to  receive, 

Great  Lincoln's  name  would  also  live ! 


BUT  to  return,  when  slavery's  hosts 

Saw  how  that  all  their  plans  had  failed, 
And  how  that  he,  they  envied  most, 

Had  e'en  despite  their  wiles  prevailed ; 
They  grew  incensed,  and  madly  blind, 

And  swore  by  all  that  had  been  done 
To  rend  the  sacred  bands  which  bind 

Our  many  glorious  states  in  one, — 
And  in  their  stead,  build  of  their  own 

A  time  enduring  dynasty, 


136  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Whose  spreading  base  and  corner  stone 

Should  rest  on  human  slavery. 
To  such  an  epoch  they  had  bent, 

For  thirty  years  their  vulturous  eye, 
And  well-provisioned  the  event, 

With  every  species  of  supply. 
The  arsenals  were  in  their  hands, 

And  in  their  hands  were  all  the  spoil, 
And  all  the  soldiery  of  our  lands 

Were  rendezvousing  on  their  soil, 
With  these  unique  advantages, 

And  deeming  their  success  as  sure, 
Like  Hell-inspired  savages 

Upon  the  nation's  flag  they  pour 
Volleys  of  grape  and  canister, 

Then  seized  the  navy,  and  reversed 
Its  purpose,  so  as  to  deter 

The  North,  then  dared  them  to  their  worst. 

The  news  spread  forth  with  speed  of  thought 

In  all  directions  o'er  the  land; 
Nor  nook  nor  point  was  there  forgot. 

It  swept  its  length  from  strand  to  strand, 
The  State  was  like  the  storm-lashed  sea, 

Chafing  itself  with  wild  unrest, 
No  bounds  were  there  to  the  degree 

Of  rage,  apparent  and  expressed. 
All  business  lay  in  blank  suspense ; 

And  men  stood  idly  here  and  there, 
With  no  apparent  deference 

To  secular  pursuit  or  care. 

No  ships  of  war,  nor  arms  nor  men, 

The  treasury  in  a  broken  state ; 
And  every  post  a  rebel  den, 

Where  treason  brawled  in  high  debate, — 


BELL'S     POEMS.  137 

Is  but  a  picture  faintly  drawn, 

Too  faint  by  far  except  to  cull 
Some  scattered  fragments  of  the  dawn 

Of  Lincoln's  first  inaugural. 

Now,  as  our  chief  executive, 

His  first  great  office  to  perform 
Was  on  the  moment  to  conceive 

A  means  by  which  to  check  the  storm, 
Which  soon  would  burst  from  its  confines, 
And  sweep  along  our  northern  lines 
With  lightning  flash  and  thunder  roar, 
More  terrible  than  aught  before. 

He  called  for  loyal  men  of  war, 

Five  and  seventy  thousand  strong: 
'Twas  heralded  anear  and  far, 

And  answered  by  a  mighty  throng. 
They  came  of  every  clime  and  race 

Of  which  our  glorious  land  can  boast, 
With  anxious  hearts  to  take  their  place 

In  freedom's  cause  at  any  post. 

And  some  there  came  of  Afric's  hue, 

Though  born  and  reared  upon  our  shore, 
Who  eager  were  to  don  the  blue, 

As  they  had  done  in  days  before. 
As  they  had  done  at  Lexington, 

At  Bunker  Hill  and  Brandywine, 
At  Monmouth  and  at  Bennington, 

'Midst  freedom's  boasts  in  freedom's  line. 

As  they  had  done  at  New  Orleans, 
And  on  Lake  Erie's  troubled  waves, 

And  in  a  word,  'midst  all  the  scenes, 

Made  sacred  through  our  struggling  braves. 


138  BELL'S    POEMS. 

But  prejudice  and  foul  disdain 

Rebuked  and  scorned  their  proffered  aid, 
And  taunting,  urged  that  slavery's  chain 

Bore  no  relation  to  the  raid. 

And  thus  they  grew,  the  jeer  and  butt 

Of  the  derisive  and  the  vile; 
And  suffered  many  a  cruel  cut 

From  rostrum  and  from  press  the  while. 
These  prated  of  a  White  Man's  war, 

And  claimed  that  Negroes  feared  to  die ; 
That  face  of  those  who  placed  the  scar 

Upon  their  backs  would  make  them  fly. 

Such  was  the  feelings  which  possessed 

The  loyal  heart  when  Sumpter's  fort 
By  rebel  soldiers  was  distressed, 

And  we  could  render  no  support. 
And  such  the  feeling  which  prevailed 

Up  to  our  sad  Bull  Run  retreat; 
For  ever  yet  our  arms  had  failed 

The  rebel  forces  to  defeat. 

Our  dead  lay  bleaching  on  the  plains, 

By  scores  of  thousands  slept  they  there, 
While  liberty,  with  plaintive  strains, 

Was  calling  fresh  recruits  to  war. 
Our  hospitals  were  running  o'er 

With  all  our  sick  and  wounded  braves ; 
And  in  one  line  a  thousand  score 

Of  stalwart,  hail  and  idle  slaves. 

Of  these  their  masters  some  were  dead, 
And  prisoners  some,  but  all  were  foes, 

Who  from  their  slaves  and  homes  had  fled, 
The  Union  forces  to  oppose. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  139 

O  Prejudice!  thou  art  to  blame 

For  half  of  all  the  noble  braves 
Who  fell  in  Freedom's  sacred  name ; 

'Twas  thy  base  deeds  that  dug  their  graves! 

Witness  thy  truckling  course,  and  then 

Defer  thy  case  to  honest  men ; 

To  judge  betwixt  thy  soul  and  mine. 

Behold  within  the  Union  line 

Scores  of  thousands  of  brawny  arms 

Held  up  in  view  of  war's  alarms, 

Pulsating  with  their  force  of  life, 

And  anxious  for  the  scenes  of  strife, — 

Anxious  to  wield  the  battle  sword 

'Gainst  vile  oppression's  murderous  horde, 

Praying  heaven,  and  praying  earth 

To  grant  them  license  to  go  forth 

And  bear  their  part  where  freedom's  braves 

Were  falling  in  untimely  graves. 

Alas !  alas,  their  humble  prayer 
Fell  heedless  on  the  murky  air, 
And  met  no  answer  in  return, 
Except  a  cold  and  heartless  spurn. 
And  yet,  while  thou  wert  scorning  these, 
Our  forces,  both  by  land  and  seas, 
Were  being  worsted  in  the  fight, 
And  pressed  at  times  e'en  unto  flight, 
Leaving  behind  their  graveless  dead, 
And  wounded  braves,  uncared  or  fed. 

And  yet  thou  hold'st  at  thy  command, 
Ready  whereon  to  lay  thy  hand, 
A  hundred  thousand  stalwart  blacks 
Eager  to  don  their  haversacks 


140  BELL'S    POEMS. 

And  rush  with  muskets  to  the  field, 
Or  swords  dissevered  from  their  shield, 
And  there  to  pledge  'neath  Heaven's  blue  sky 
To  conquer  treason's  host  or  die. 
And  yet  they  were  denied  the  right — 
Denied  the  privilege  to  fight 
'Gainst  rebels  who  had  veiled  in  gloom 
Full  many  a  Northern  heart  and  home. 


And  wherefore  were  they  thus  denied 
Until  the  glory  and  the  pride 
Of  all  our  mighty  North  was  taken 
And  lifeless  strewn  o'er  many  a  plain? 
Oh!  Prejudice!  thou  art  to  blame 

For  half  of  all  the  noble  braves 
Who  fell  in  fredom's  sacred  name ; 

'Twas  thou,  foul  fiend,  that  dug  their  graves ! 


But  for  thy  forked  tongue  of  guile 

Blood  would  have  flowed  not  half  the  while ; 

But  for  thy  craven  heart  of  guilt 

Not  half  the  blood  would  have  been  spilt; 

Yet,  in  despite  thy  rant  and  boast 

The  right  shall  live  when  e'en  thy  ghost, 

Thy  hated  ghost,  thou  cursed  thing, 

Shall  to  the  drift  of  raiment  cling! 


The  mission  of  the  war  was  plain, 
But  prejudice  so  dimmed  our  sight 

That  long  we  blindly  strove  in  vain, 
Groping  our  way  amidst  the  light. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  141 

The  mission  of  the  war  was  this — 
To  force  the  bolt,  unbar  the  door, 

And  let  the  long  oppressed  go  free ; 
It  was  no  veiled  hypothesis, 

But  plain,  so  plain  that  all  might  see, 
E'en  to  the  poorest  of  the  poor. 

And  some  did  see,  and  feigned  they  saw  it  not, 
While  others  saw  and  cursed  their  hapless  lot. 
But  those  who  long  in  darkness  dwelt, 

And  those  who  in  death's  shadow  stood, 
Saw  its  Bright  beams ;  they  saw  and  felt, 

And  well  its  purpose  understood. 

For  straight  they  took  their  harps  once  more 

From  off  the  boughs  where  they  had  hung, 
And  ran  their  stiffened  lingers  o'er 

Their  chords,  to  which  the  moss  had  clung, 
When  lo!  to  their  too  great  surprise, 

Those  chords  possessed  their  wonted  glee 
And  chanted  to  the  very  skies 

The  rising  dawn  of  jubilee. 

But  those  who  dwelt  upon  the  plain, 

Or  sported  on  the  mountain  high, 
When  prejudice  had  left  his  stain, 

Saw  no  bright  bow  of  promise  nigh. 

For  we  had  sought  to  crush  the  South, 

Without  the  black  man  or  his  aid, 
And  to -this  end  had  taxed  the  North, 

And  West  and  East  to  quell  the  raid, 
And  yet  the  rebels  kept  the  field 

With  reinforcements  in  reserve, 
Before  our  troops  they  would  not  yield, 

Nor  widely  from  their  purpose  swerve. 


142  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Full  twenty  moons  had  waxed  and  waned, 
And  war  had  darkened  many  a  home, 

Before  the  anxious  black  obtained 
The  right,  a  soldier  to  become. 

But  not  till  we  had  vainly  tried 
To  reconcile  our  traitorous  foe : 

Not  until  we,  with  humbled  pride, 
Had  really  begged  them  to  forego, 

And  e'en  were  driven  to  destroy 

Their  institution  of  support, 
Did  we  a  single  black  employ, 

In  rank  or  navy,  field  or  fort. 

But  when  the  time  had  quite  expired ; 

The  hundred  days  of  the  decree, 
And  God  and  justice  now  required 

The  bondsman's  promised  liberty- 
Then  noble  Lincoln,  armed  with  might, 
And  clothed  with  honor,  truth  and  right, 
Stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  took  the  quill, 

And  tracing  it  along  the  page, 
He  framed,  with  heaven-admiring  skill, 

The  crowning  feature  of  his  age — 

That  God  inspired  instrument! 

Charter  of  manhood — Liberty! 
Heaven  ordained  and  heaven  sent 

To  rid  our  land  of  slavery! 

The  news  thereof  spread  far  and  wide, 
And  filled  each  humble  slave's  abode 

With  the  grand  and  joyous  tide 

Of  blessings  which  had  been  bestowed. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  143 

Then  wild  the  Union  to  assist, 

As   regulars  or  volunteers, 
The  blacks  rushed  forward  to  enlist 

'Midst  thunder  shouts  and  deafening  cheers. 

Old  Massachusetts'  Fifty-fourth 

Filed  into  line,  and  swelled  the  ranks, 

And  charged  so  nobly  on  the  South 
As  to  extort  the  Nation's  thanks. 

Then  came  the  arming  of  the  slaves, 

The  noble  Butler's  "contrabands," 
Who  proved  themselves  not  only  braves, 

But  ranked  the  soldiers  of  our  lands. 

Then  black  men  went  as  substitutes 
While  timid  white  men  staid  at  home ; 

Thus  swelled  the  ranks  of  all  recruits, 
Till  bloody  treason  met  its  doom. 

Two  hundred  thousand  strong  they  stood, 

And  fought  for  liberty  and  right, 
And  quite  as  freely  shed  their  blood 

As  those  proud  braves  whose  skins  were  white. 

They  bravely  fought !    And  is  that  all 
That  truth  can  say  in  their  defense? 

They  drank  the  very  dregs  of  gall, 
And  bore  a  world  of  insolence. 

And  yet  of  Liberty's  tried  friends, 
They  ranked  the  truest  of  the  true ; 

Ne'er  having  swerved  for  selfish  ends, 
Nor  coupled  treason  with  their  hue. 


144  BELL'S    POEMS. 

For  twelve  score  years  in  feeless  toil, 
They  labored  for  our  country's  good, 

Delved  in  our  mines,  wrought  on  our  soil, 
And  fertilized  our  fields  with  blood. 

In  all  our  wars  they  bore  their  part, 
Nor  shrank  from  dangers  imminent, 

Mingling  the  life-biood  of  their  heart 
With  that  of  braves  most  eminent. 

And  yet,  through  all  those  lengthened  years 
Their  life  was  one  of  grief  and  pain> 

And  groans,  and  sighs,  and  bitter  tears, 
And  worse  than  all,  a  life  of  chains. 

But  there's  to  every  day  an  eve, 
And  unto  every  night  a  morn, 

And  joys  there  are  for  those  who  grieve, 
Howe'er  dejected  and  forlorn! 

The  wrong  may  triumph  for  a  while, 
But  right  comes  uppermost  at  last, 

And  love  shall  bloom,  and  peace  shall  smile, 
When  error's  hated  reign  is  past. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  long  oppressed, 
•  And  hail  the  gladsome  rising  dawn, 
For  Slavery's  night,  that  sore  distressed 
And  tortured  you,  has  passed  and  gone! 

And  Liberty's  refulgent  blaze 

Lights  up  our  broad,  unbroken  land, 

And  nowhere  'neath  her  spreading  rays 
Lives  there  a  fetter  or  a  brand ! 


BELL'S    POEMS.  145 

All  hail !  the  land  has  been  redeemed 

From  thraldom's  foul  and  ruthless  sway; 

And  Freedom's  radiant  light  has  streamed 
Along  the  bondman's  gloomy  way! 

And  in  those  dungeons  of  dispair, 
Whence  every  ray  of  hope  had  fled, 

Blest  Liberty  had  entered  there 

And  breathed  new  life  into  the  dead. 

And  o'er  those  regions  of  the  brand, 

Where  toil  was  recompensed  with  scorn, 

Has  waved  abroad  her  flaming  wand; 
And  lo!  a  nation  there  is  born — 


And  clothed  upon  with  sacred  rights ; 

Those  sacred  rights  of  jealous  care, 
In  whose  defense  the  torch  she  lights, 

And  strips  her  arm  of  vengeance  bare. 

O,  Liberty!  thou  peerless  queen! 

Thou  quenchless  essence  of  the  soul, 
Preside  o'er  these  in  every  scene, 

And  ward  them  'gainst*  all  base  control ; 

Plant  in  their  hearts  a  love  of  thought, 

An  anxious  spirit  to  acquire 
Those  mighty  truths  that  are  only  bought 

With  perseverance  and  desire. 

Move  them  to  grasp  with  hand  and  heart, 
And  with  a  deathless  will  beside, 

Each  mode  of  science,  skill  and  art, 
Consistent  with  our  Nation's  pride: 


146  BELL'S    POEMS. 

So  that  the  world  may  ne'er  regret 

The  mighty  work  that's  been  performed, 

And  so  that  Time  his  seal  may  set 
Upon  their  future  all  adorned. 


There  is  no  right  a  freeman  has 

So  purely  sacred  as  his  choice. 
How  e'er  bereft  he'll  cling  to  this, 

And  in  its  potency  rejoice: 

For  in  its  exercise  he  stands 

The  peer  of  titled  wealth  and  state, 

How  e'er  possessed  of  spreading  lands, 
Or  gifted  they  in  high  debate — 

He  is  their  peer,  however  grand, 

Or  much  upon  themselves  they  dote, 

For  there's  no  station  in  our  land 
Which  ranks  a  man  above  his  vote. 

The  right  to  exercise  a  right ; 

The  right  to  choose  'twixt  man  and  man; 
The  right  to  battle  for  the  right, 

And  in  the  right  do  what  we  can, 

Is  manhood  clothed  with  liberty — 

The  just,  inherent  right  of  all, 
Regardless  of  ability, 

Or  age,  or  sex,  or  great  or  small ! 

That  right  today  the  black  man  wields 
With  gratitude,  though  long  denied, 

For  deep  within  his  heart  he  feels 
A  sacredness  of  joy  and  pride. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  147 

Nobly  the  war  has  done  its  work, 

And  nobly  the  Republicans, 
With  no  apparent  wish  to  shirk, 

Have  canceled  Freedom's  high  demands. 

They  took  the  fetters  in  their  hand, 

And  wrenched  them  from  the  bleeding  limb ; 

Then  took  the  slave  'neath  their  command, 
And  nurtured  and  disciplined  him. 

They  gave  subsistence  to  his  wife, 

And  to  his  little  ones  gave  bread, 
And  thus  amid  the  scenes  of  strife 

Were  countless  thousands  clothed  and  fed. 

They  formed  the  Freeclmen's  Bureau  Bill, 
Which  placed  the  letter  in  his  hand, 

And  gave  him  schools,  despite  the  will 
Of  him,  the  tyrant,  in  command. 

They  framed  the  Bill  of  Civil  Rights, 

By  which  his  living  was  secured 
Against  those  vile  malevolent  whites 

Whose  souls  to  treason  were  inured.  * 

Then  toward  our  fundamental  laws 
They  bent  their  hearts  in  zealous  toil, 

And  thereunto  affixed  a  clause 

W^hich  banished  slavery  from  our  soil. 

This  nobly  done,  they  still  propose 

Our  charter  further  to  amend, 
By  making  citizens  of  those 

The  law  had  proffered  to  defend. 


148  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Though  'twas  a  grave  step  in  the  right, 
The  party  claimed  it  none  the  less, 

And  girding  well  their  loins  with  might, 
They  fought  the  issue  to  success. 

This  contest,  proudly  fought  and  won, 
Left  one  just  claim  uncanceled  yet, 

Before  the  world-wide  shout,  well  done! 
Would  ring  from  freedom's  minaret. 

To  council  this,  the  final  claim, 

And  merit  freedom's  grand  applause, 
And  win  a  fadeless  wreath  of  fame, 

Through  noble  deeds  in  manhood's  cause ; 
They  concentrated  all  their  might, 

Which  great  Ulysses  deigned  to  lead  ? 
And  claimed  the  Franchise  as  a  right, 

And  just  investment  of  the  freed. 

To  every  State  went  forth  the  claim, 

How  e'er  convenient  or  remote, 
And  everywhere,  in  freedom's  name, 

They  pressed  the  freedman's  right  to  vote. 

State  after  State  endorsed  the  fact, 
Which  lent  new  ardor  to  their  zeal — 

A  zeal  which  no  incentive  lacked 
To  strengthen  or  enforce  appeal. 

Full  thirty  States  at  length  filed  out, 
And  proudly  stood  on  manhood's  side; 

And  Freedom  raised  the  joyous  shout, 
"Well  done!  All  hail!  All  satisfied!" 


BELL'S    POEMS.  149 

This  was  the  crowning  act  of  all ; 

And  placed  upon  one  common  base, 
Of  all  this  mighty  rolling  ball 

A  specimen  of  every  race. 

Freedom's  proud  temple's  now  complete, 
Crowned  with  the  long-rejected  stone; 

And  we  are  here  to  hail  and  greet 

The  master  minds  by  which  'twas  done. 

Hail !  Master  Workmen,  noble  band ! 

And  hail  the  key-stone,  and  the  arch, 
The  pride  and  glory  of  our  land ! 

And  hail,  to  manhood's  onward  march! 

The  night  of  gloom,  the  night  of  sorrow, 
The  night  of  wrong,  the  night  of  chains, 

At  length  has  passed,  and  lo !  the  morrow 
Of  joy  has  dawned,  and  Freedom  reigns. 

For,  in  our  nation's  Senate  Hall, 

A  Negro  has  his  seat  today, 
Where,  e'en  in  memory's  brief  recall, 

Sat  Calhoun,  Webster,  Cass  and  Clay. 

Rejoice,  O  land,  bought  by  the  sword, 
Redeemed  and  by  the  sword  set  free! 

Let  all  thy  sons,  with  one  accord, 
Be  jubilant  o'er  thy  victory. 

That  we  should  have  a  member,  where 
One  decade  back,  'twere  worth  the  head 

Of  such  as  he,  to  even  dare 

Within  those  sacred  halls  to  tread, 


150  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Proves  that  the  world  doth  surely  move, 
And  proves  that  men  of  worth  may  rise 

From  low  estate,  and  soar  above 

Their  former  selves  in  nature's  guise. 

How  wondrous  the  coincident, 

That  from  the  Great  Arch  Rebel's  home, 
His  erring  State  to  represent, 

Our  first  Black  Senator  should  come, 
A  seat  of  office  to  complete, 

Made  vacant  through  Jeff's  recreancy. 
O,  for  the  privilege  to  greet 
That  Negro  in  that  Rebel's  seat ! 

'Twere  worth  the  distance  and  expense. 

But  this  is  not  the  only  post 

By  Negroes  filled,  deserving  boast : 

We  have  a  Judge  upon  the  seat, 

And  Ministers  in  foreign  lands, 
At  home,  a  Governor,  to  greet, 

And  Legislators  e'en  in  bands. 

The  prayed-for  time  has  come  at  last — 

The  time  of  which  we  used  to  sing, 
The  good  time  talked  of  in  the  past, 

Is  here  today  upon  its  wing — 
The  ballot's  in  the  black  man's  hand ; 

Promotion  waits  him  at  his  door, 
And  peace  and  plenty  crown  our  land, 

And  freedom  reigns  from  shore  to  shore. 

Strike  all  your  bells,  ye  lofty  spires ! 

Wave  all  your  banners,  freedom  wave ! 
Loose  your  tongues,  ye  tell-tale  wires, 

And  you,  ye  thundering  cannons  rave ! 


BELL'S     POEMS.  151 

America,  the  land  of  science, 

The  land  of  every  nation's  love, 
Has  formed  with  Freedom  an  alliance 

So  pure,  'tis  registered  above ! 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  lofty  mountains ! 

Clap  your  glad  hands,  ye  mighty  seas ! 
Leap  for  joy,  ye  crystal  fountains, 

And  odors  'waft  sweet  balmy  breeze ! 
The  crowning  work  is  now  accomplished, 

The  builders  have  received  the  stone ! 
Dark  Slavery's  fame  has  been  demolished, 

And  all  his  Dagon  gods  o'erthrown! 

And  on  its  base  a  mighty  temple, 
Gorgeous,  grand,  sublime  and  free ! 

O'er  whose  proud  dome  and  lofty  steeple 
Presides  eternal  Liberty! 

Stand  proudly  up,  aged  sire! 

Be  filled  with  hope,  elastic  boy ; 
Bring  forth  the  lute  and  tune  the  lyre,  v 

And  let  us  have  a  feast  of  joy! 

For  lo!  the  hand  that  held  the  musket, 
And  strangled  treason  in  the  fight, 

Has  laid  aside  the  war-worn  corselet, 
And  taken  the  ballot  as  a  right ! 

And  the  right  at  his  discretion 

To  wield  it  as  his  faith  may  guide 

Responsible  for  each  digression, 

To  God,  his  country,  and  his  pride ! 


152  BELL'S    POEMS. 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  accept  a  brief  line 
Inscribed  to  our  country,  thy  country  and  mine. 

Hail !  hail  mighty  Land  with  thy  proud  destiny ! 
Enduring  as  time,  all  chainless  and  free ! 
Hail !  hail  to  thy  mountains  majestic  and  high, 
Reclining  their  heads  against  the  blue  curtained 
sky. 

And  hail  to  thy  valleys  so  fragrant  and  fair, 
With  wild  flowers  blooming  and  scenting  the  air ! 
And  hail  to  thy  prairies,  outspreading  and  wide, 
Resembling  the  Ocean's  broad  billowless  tide. 

And  hail  to  thy  Streamlets,  all  wending  their  way 
Adown  to  their  Rivers,  more  mighty  than  they; 
And  hail  to  thy  Rivers  as  onward  they  sweep 
Through  th'  low  valley  lands  to  their  home  in  the 
deep! 

And  hail  to  thy  Oceans,  all  dotted  with  sails, 
Their  white  wings  extended,  inviting  the  gales! 
And  hail  to  thy  Commerce,  the  pride  of  the  world, 
And  hail  to  thy  Standard  so  proudly  unfurled ! 

And  hail  to  thy  Cities  all  teaming  with  life, 
Where  the  interest  of  all  is  the  center  of  strife. 
And  hail  to  thy  Railroads  and  steam-driven  trains 
That  sweep  through  thy  mountains  and  dash  o'er 
thy  plains ! 

And  hail  to  thy  Telegraph,  thy  glory  and  prime, 
Defying  all  distance,  and  outstripping  Time, 
Extending  its  arms  through  the  heart  of  the  sea 
And  binding  all  Realms  to  the  Land  of  the  Free ! 


BELL'S    POEMS.  153 

And  hail  to  thy  Magistrates,  Judges  and  Courts, 
And  Armies  and  Navies,  thy  strength  and  sup- 
ports. 

And  hail  to  thy  Congress,  where  thy  statesmen 

are  met, 

Where  thy  wisdom  for  ages  in  Counsel  have  sat. 
And  hail  to  thy  Chief,  the  Bright  Crown  of  thy 

State, 
The  gallant  Ulysses,  all  glorious  and  great ! 

And  hail,  once  again,  thy  glory  and  pride ! 
Bright  Banner  of  Freedom,  out-spreading  and 
wide! 

There's  not  a  dark  spot  on  thy  features  today ! 
As  pure  as  the  heavens,  and  radiant  as  they ! 
Thus,  ever  proud  Banner,  exultingly  wave ! 
Thou  glory  and  pride  of  the  unfettered  slave ! 


154  BELL'S    POEMS. 


POEM, 

In  commemoration  of  the  death  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  delivered  at  the  great  public  meeting 
of  colored  citizens  on  Tuesday  evening,  April 
1 8,  1865,  Sacramento,  Cal. 

Wherefore  half-mast  and  waving  sadly 

And  seeming  ill-disposed  to  move, 
Are  those  bright  emblems  which  so  gladly 

Were  wont  to  wave  our  homes  above  ? 
And  why  is  all  this  lamentation? 

And  why  those  outward  signs  of  woe  ? 
And  why  is  this  all-glorious  nation 

Thus  in  her  hour  of  hope  bowed  low  ? 

Wherefore  those  marks  of  grief  and  sorrow 

So  visible  on  every  face? 
To  what  foul  deed  of  bloody  horror 

Do  all  those  gloomy  signs  retrace  ? 
Aback  to  the  walls  and  lofty  spire ! 

Back  to  the  Nation's  Halls  of  State ! 
Back  to  our  country's  bleeding  sire ! 

Back  to  our  dying  Magistrate  ! 

We  know  not  why  God  has  permitted 

This  tragic  scene,  this  bloody  deed ; 
An  act  so  seemingly  unfitted, 

In  this  auspicious  hour  of  need. 
Though  none  perhaps  may  the  intention, 

Or  the  wonderous  purpose  tell, 
Of  this   direful   life-suspension — 

Yet  God,  the  Lord,  doeth  all  things  well ! 


BELL'S     POEMS.  155 

Our  Nation's  Father  has  been  murdered ! 

Our  Nation's  Chieftain  has  been  slain ! 
By  traitorous  hands  most  basely  ordered ; 

And  we,  his  children,  feel  the  pain. 
Our  pain  is  mixed  with  indignation, 

Our  sorrow  is  not  purely  grief, 
And  nothing  short  of  a  libation 

From  Treason's  heart  can  bring  relief. 

And  we,  in  sight  of  earth  and  heaven, 

On  bended  knee,  with  lifted  hand, 
Swear  as  we  hope  to  be  forgiven, 

To  drive  foul  Treason  from  the  land  ! 
And  that  fair  land  so  long  polluted 

By  the  sweat  of  unpaid  toil, 
Shall  be  by  liberty  uprooted, 

And  thickly  spread  with  freedom's  soil. 

Thus  we'll  avenge  the  death  of  Lincoln, 

His  noble  principles  maintain, 
Till  every  base  inhuman  falcon 

Is  swept  from  freedom's  broad  domain ; 
Until  from  tower  and  from  turret, 

From  mountain  height  and  prairie  wide, 
One  flag  shall  wave — and  freedom's  spirit 

In  peace  and  love  o'er  all  preside ! 


156  BELL'S    POEMS. 


THE    FUTURE    OF    AMERICA,    IN    THE 
UNITY  OF  THE  RACES. 


Respectfully  dedicated  to 
BISHOP  BENJAMIN  W.  ARNETT, 
A  life-long  and  devoted  friend  and  a  noble  and 
loyal  citizen  whose  work  for  God  and  the  good 
of  the  race  is  bearing  its  fruits,  presenting  to 
the   present  generation   of  colored   youth  an 
inspiring  example  for  their    honest,  earnest, 
individual  effort. 


Once  in  a  time  along  the  Jordan, 

And  e'en  from  Beersheba  to  Dan, 
The  question  rife  and  all-absorbing 

Hither  and  thither  wildly  ran, 
Wh'at  think  you  of  this  Christ,  this  Jesus? 

What  of  his  intercourse  with  man? 
The  which  to  solve  full  many  a  thesis 

Has  been  the  sport  of  mind  and  pen. 

But  we  today  would  feign  a  question 

Bring  home  to  each  American ; 
No  deep-veiled,  mystified  suggestion, 

But  simply,  what  think  you  of  man  ? 
Not  of  the  angels  high  and  holy, 

Not  of  the  streets  of  shining  gold, 
Nor  of  the  doomed  in  hades  lowly, 

Nor  of  time,  with  his  step  so^bold. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  357 

These  were  themes   for  speculation, 

On  which  the  mind  might  cogitate 
And  weary  e'en  imagination, 

With  heights,  and  depths,  and  breadth  so  great. 
But  what  of  man,  is  he  thy  brother, 

In  all  his  variableness  of  hue? 
And  is  thy  God  and  God  thy  Father, 

Alike  his  God  and  Father,  too? 

Is  he  entitled  and  deserving 

In  all  that's  common  to  the  race, 
Whether  in  ruling  or  in  serving, 

Adjudged  by  fitness  in  the  case? 
These  are  the  questions  of  the  hour, 

And  these  the  issues  of  the  day ; 
On  these  the  wisdom,  skill  and  power 

Of  this  great  nation  deigns  to  play. 

For  here,  not  only  the  religion, 

But  each  man's  patriot  faith  and  creed, 
Will  blazen  forth  in  his  decision 

Till  even  he  that  runs  may  read. 
Therefore,  let  him  within  whose  nature 

An  impulse  lives,  though  weak,  to  do 
Aright  by  every  living  creature, 

Cherish  that  impulse  and  be  true — 

True  to  a  grand  and  generous  manhood; 

True  to  the  spirit  of  the  age, 
Whose  motto  is  untrammeled  selfhood 

For  human  life  in  every  stage, 
And  on  this  heaven-established  basis 

Whoever  builds  near  need  not  make  haste, 
For  coming  freedman's  glorious  trace, 

Too  radiant  are  to  be  defaced. 


158  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Too  high  within  the  mortal  heaven 

Has  risen  the  star  of  destiny, 
And  far  too  wide  has  spread  the  leaven 

Of  freedom  and  equality. 
We  may  not  with  a  will  concede  it, 

As  from  the  fullness  of  our  hearts, 
But  freedman's  God  has  thus  decreed  it 

And  the  boon  we  must  impart. 


No  combined  power  of  human  effort 

Can  turn  the  joyous  time  aside, 
Laden  with  fruits  of  hope  and  comfort 

To  anxious  millions  long  denied. 
As  well  confront  the  mighty  ocean, 

Lashing  with  rage  his  rock-bound  shores, 
And  strive  to  curb  his  wild  commotion, 

Or  drown  the  thunder  of  his  roar, 
As  to  resist  the  coming  morrow 

Which  liberty,  and  truth,  and  God 
Have  promised  these  dark  sons  of  sorrow 

So  long  enchained  and  'neath  the  rod. 


Must  we  put  forth  our  vain  endeavors 

And  waste  our  efforts  on  the  wind, 
And  learn  too  late  that  mortals  never 

Can  change  what  heaven  has  designed? 
We  may  provoke  God's  indignation, 

And  cause  the  heavens  again  to  frown, 
Till  his  avenging  visitations 

Cause  us  in  sorrow  to  bow  down, 
Yet  on  and  on  will  sweep  the  current, 

Now  putting  in  from  Freedom's  sea, 
Rushing  onward  like  a  torrent, 

Flooding  the  land  with  liberty. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  159 

We  may  attempt  to  drive  them  from  us, 

Beyond  the  confines  of  our  shore, 
For  even  now  are  there  among  us 

Monsters  with  thoughts  so  vile  in  store. 

But  dare  we  do  it,  these  jester's  slave-men, 

Poor  dupes  of  unrequitted  toil, 
When  we  can  no  longer  deprave  them, 

Drive  them  to  other  lands,  the  spoil 
Of  a  miasma  wildly  raging 

Beneath  an  endless  summer's  sun, 
Where  listless  sloth  has  been  enslaving 

The  mind  of  man  since  time  begun? 

Dare  we  do  this,  and  righteous  heaven 

Pour  out  on  us  new  vials  of  wrath, 
Until  our  land,  all  rent  and  riven, 

Shall  welter  in  a  crimson  bath? 
Oh,  stand  in  awe  of  God's  displeasure ; 

Our  sure  destruction  we  may  buy, 
And  through  our  baseness  fill  the  measure 

Of  our  guilt,  and  cursed  of  heaven  die. 

The  means  of  life  and  self  destruction 

Are  placed  in  every  nation's  reach, 
While  error,  the  bane  of  reproduction, 

Insinuates  at  every  breach. 
Beware!    If  God  has  built  this  nation 

All  its  constituents  are  good 
And  needful  to  its  preservation, 

Whether  they  be  stone  or  wood. 

We  may  not  comprehend  the  structure 

In  full  minutial  design, 
Nor  trace  its  varied  architecture 

In  arris,  groove,  and  curve,  and  line. 


160  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Be  but  faithful,  and  the  Great  Grand  Master 
Will  on  his  trestle  board  make  plain 

All  that's  obtuse,  but  no  whit  faster 
Than  'twere  needful  to  explain. 

But  can  we  not  perceive  a  purpose 

In  the  peopling  of  this  land, 
Destined  of  God  to  be  the  foremost 

And  the  grandest  of  the  grand  ? 
And  have  we  not  beheld  the  nations 

In  spreading  o'er  the  vastly  sphere, 
That  as  they  spread  them  weaker  traces 

Of  their  varied  types  appear? 
There  is  a  principle  in  nature, 

And  demonstrative  everywhere, 
Inanimate  and  breathing  creature, 

The  self-established  truth  declare; 

All  branches  of  the  common  center 

Diminish  and  weaken  in  their  course, 
The  germ  in  every  part  doth  enter, 

But  ever  with -abated  force. 
Behold  the  oak  with  spreading  branches, 

The  trunk-life  lives  in  every  branch, 
But  as  in  length  each  limb  advances 

It  loses  strength  and  sustenance. 
The  giant  oak's  unbroken  forces 

Within  no  single  branch  is  found, 
And  faultless  nature  ne'er  reverses 

This  law  in  all  her  varied  round. 

The  huge  oak's  branches  closely  blended, 

And  all  completely  unified, 
Would  rival  all  the  force  expended 

And  varied  life  so  long  supplied. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  161 

Turn  to  those  early  peopled  regions — 

To  Europe,  Asia,  Africa: 
The  home  of  science  and  religions, 

And  tell  us  what  of  them  today? 
Where  now  is  all  their  former  glory  ? 

And  where  that  grandeur  and  renown 
That  radiates  the  page  of  story, 

As  diamond  jettings  doth  a  crown? 


Where  now  their  sculptures  and  their  sages, 

Their  painters  and  their  orators? 
And  where  the  pride  of  all  the  ages — 

Their  poets  and  philosophers? 
Where  now  the  minds  that  planned  their  temples, 

The  proud  Colossus  reared  at  Rhodes, 
Grand  architectural  examples 

And  ever-living  sculptural  modes  ? 
Their  day  of  grandeur  has  departed; 

Their  sun  of  glory  has  gone  down, 
And  passed  away  the  valiant  hearted, 

Their  mighty  men  of  great  renown. 


Their  wondrous  temples  are  in  ruins, 

Apollo  sleeps  beneath  the  sea ; 
For  time  has  here  wrought  sad  undoings 

And  carved  on  all  degeneracy. 
The  branch  had  here  become  too  distant 

From  the  great  Adamic  tree, 
And  hence  the  germ  and  life  assistant 

Had  grown  too  meagre  in  degree; 
For  where  man  lives  in  isolation, 

Though  vast  possessions  he^  embrace, 
As  family,  tribe,  kingdom  or  nation, 

Degeneracy  has  marked  the  race. 


162  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Hence,  while  the  clannish  tribes  were  sweeping 

The  wide-spread  east  in  their  unrest, 
Heaven  for  a  glorious  end  was  keeping 

In  blest  reserve  the  mighty  west ; 
But  not  until  their  wasted  powers 

Gave  evidence  of  sure  decay, 
Was  this  wealth-flowing  land  of  ours 

Thrown  in  a  wandering  seaman's  way, 
Wherein  a  branch  of  every  nation 

And  tongue  and  tribe  beneath  the  sun, 
Should  spend  the  days  of  their  probation 

And  finally  converge  into  one — 

One,  wherein  the  scattered  forces 

Of  the  great  Adamic  tree, 
With  all  its  varied  life  resources, 

Should  blend  in  perfect  harmony. 
And  by  that  unifying  process, 

Give  earth  once  more  a  glorious  type 
Of  wisdom,  grace  and  noble  prowess 

Co-equal  with  the  architype; 

A  genius  of  a  new  creation, 

Whom  all  shall  hail  with  loud  acclaim, 
Whose  boast  shall  be  a  blood  relation 

To  all  the  kindred  sons  of  fame. 
Toward  this  seeming  innovation 

Point  all  the  dial  hands  of  fate, 
And  to  its  final  consummation 

On  fleeting  Time's  revolving  plate. 

It  may  be  years,  it  may  be  ages, 

The  finale  is  with  God  alone, 
Who  measures  not  by  dates  and  pages, 

But  by  the  fiat  of  his  throne ; 


BELL'S     POEMS.  163 

For  in  the  near  and  distant  future 

Of  all  those  tribal  branches  here, 
Scarce  aught  will  live  in  speech  or  feature 

Of  what  their  great  ancestors  were. 

For  with  the  unity  of  branches 

Will  come  a  unity  of  speech, 
Correcting  old  and  groundless  fancies 

Discordant  tongues  could  never  reach. 

Dependent  are  we  on  each  other 

And  parts  essential  to  a  whole, 
Strive  as  we  may  this  fact  to  smother, 

The  truth  will  brook  all  vain  control. 

One  man,  Jehovah,  God  created, 

In  whom  all  graces  did  combine, 
To  whom  earth's  myriads  are  related 

E'en  as  the  branch  is  to  the  vine. 

And  as  the  thrifty  vine  while  growing 
Round  distant  limbs  its  fibers  twine, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  shade  bestowing, 
Comprises  but  a  single  vine. 

So,  in  the  light  of  heaven's  deeming, 
Whose  broad  eye  doth  creation  span 

Earth's  tribes  in  all  their  varied  seeming, 
Combine  to  form  a  single  man. 

We  are  not  independent  creatures; 

Our  brothers'  keepers  are  we  all, 
Bearing  the  likeness  and  the  features 

Of  God,  our  Maker,  great  and  small; 


164  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Though  darker  than  the  shades  of  blackness, 
Or  fairer  than  the  morning  light, 

It  matters  not,  in  strict  exactness, 
God's  image  are  we*,  black  or  white. 

The  inspirations  of  our  natures, 

Declare  to  us,  though  erring  creatures, 
Of  each  we  are  integral  parts. 

Then  here,  where  fortune  has  assigned  us, 
'Neath  God's  blue  dome  of  liberty, 

Let  deathless  bands  of  friendship  bind  us 
In  bonds  of  blest  fidelity, 

That  in  the  future  grand  unfolding, 
When  all  our  dark,  perplexing  fears 

Respecting  rights  and  their  withholding 
Are  buried  in  the  grave  of  years, 

Man  shall  arise  in  all  his  grandeur, 
In  all  his  native  dignity, 

And  go  forth  daring  fear  or  danger, 
The  ward  of  peace  and  liberty. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  165 


THE  YOUTHFUL  VILLAGER  AND  THE 
HERMIT. 

Once  on  a  clear  autumnal  day, 

With  weary  heart  and  spirit  bowed, 

I  sought  a  silent  scene  away 

From  all  the  turmoil  of  the  crowd. 

And  where  a  rent  primeval  rock 

Reared  high  its  head  o'er  spire  and  dome, 
Which  seemed  majestic  and  to  mock 

The  structure  of  my  plebeian  home. 

I  bent  in  gaze  my  straining  eye, 

And  yielding  to  a  transient  freak, 
Resolved  within  my  soul  to  try 

And  scale  the  towering  cloud-capped  peak. 

What  tiresome  moments,  more  or  less, 

I  toiled  in  gaining  half  its  height, 
When  lo !  a  shadowy,  deep  recess 

Allured  and  filled  me  with  delight. 

And  turning  from  my  onward  march 

I  found  it  easy  of  access, 
And  passing  'neath  a  rural  arch, 

I  gained  a  scene  of  loveliness. 

It  might  have  been  a  warrior's  home, 
The  home  of  chiefs  who  dealt  in  scars, 

Its  walls  were  antique  and  its  dome 
Was  flaming  with  a  thousand  stars. 


166  BELL'S    POEMS: 

I  scanned  its  countless  beauties  o'er, 
And  turning  from  a  scene  too  grand, 

I  passed  again  its  arching  door 

And  gazed  upon  my  own  loved  land. 

I  saw  beneath,  amid  the  throng, 

The  poor  man  subject  to  the  proud; 

And  while  I  thought  of  right  and  wrong, 
I,  all  forgetting,  thought  aloud. 

Till  then,  alas ;  I  little  knew 
Of  man's  inhuman  acts  to  man, 

But  from  that  panoramic  view 
I,  half  complaining,  thus  began : 

"If  there  were  less  of  selfishness, 

If  friends  were  less  untrue; 
How  much  of  all  earth's  wretchedness 

Would  vanish  from  our  view. 

The  rich  man  then  would  cease  to  grind 

The  fate  of  him  that's  poor ; 
And  soon  the  wretch,  and  wandering  hind 

Would  vanish  from  our  door. 


And  if  the  stream  of  kindness  ran 
More  freely  through  the  heart, 

Then,  erring  man  would  feel  for  man 
And  act  a  brother's  part ; 

The  golden  rule  he  would  obey, 
And  seek  the  poor  man's  cot ; 

And  with  his  kindly  aid  assay 
To  change  his  hapless  lot. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  367 


For  there's  enough  for  every  one ; 

Enough,  and  some  to  spare. 
Enough  of  comforts  'neath  the  sun 

For  all  that  breathe  to  share. 


Were  only  half  that's  vainly  spent 
To  make  an  empty  show, 

Amid  the  haunts  of  sorrow  sent, 
'Twould  heal  a  world  of  woe. 

And  oh !  how  fragrant  would  become 
Each  balmy  breath  of  morn, 

If  every  hovel  was  a  home, 
And  there  were  none  forlorn. 

As  fair  as  Eden's  blooming  grove, 
Would  this  sad  world  appear; 

If  man  to  man  would  only  prove, 
In  all  his  acts,  sincere. 

But  man !  oh,  selfish,  sordid  man ! 

How  like  a  fiend  at  heart, 
Deep  skilled  in  every  wily  plan, 

He  plays  a  demon's  part. 

See  him  exulting  in  his  might 

Of  pageantry  and  pride, 
Passing  unmoved  amid  the  blight 

Of  hunger  unsupplied. 

The  orphan's  cry  for  charity ; 

The  widow's  lonely  moan, 
Awakes  no  chord  of  sympathy 

Within  his  heart  of  stone. 


168  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Although  his  basket  and  his  store 

Have  plenty  in  supply, 
He  doth  unto  the  aged  poor 

A  crust  of  bread  deny. 

O  Thou !  the  source  of  every  cause 

In  air,  and  earth,  and  sea! 
Whose  ceaseless  and  unerring  laws 

Move  all  in  harmony; 

Why  do  thy  gifts  to  man  on  earth 

Unequal  still  appear? 
Why  go  some  toiling  from  their  birth, 

E'en  to  their  graves  in  fear? 

WThile  others,  decked  in  fine  array, 
Drink  deep  at  pleasure's  court, 

And  pass  this  life  as  but  a  day, 
In  idle  glee  and  sport! 

Why  do  the  thousands  starve  and  thirst, 

And  others  die  of  cold? 
And.  last  of  all,  and  still  the  worst, 

Why  are  the  millions  sold? 

Perchance  there  lies  some  latent  good 

Beyond  my  feeble  ken, 
By  angels  seen  and  understood, 

But  not  perceived  by  men. 

Yet  why  should  not  the  culprit  know 
Wherefore  he  stands  arraigned  ? 

Why  should  the  expiating  blow 
Fall  on  him  unexplained? 


BELL'S     POEMS.  169 

Fain  would  we  hope  in  Adam's  fall 

To  have  seen  the  problem  solved ; 
But  find  alas !  his  guilt  for  all 

In  life's  great  cup  dissolved. 

For  of  one  blood  all  men  were  made, 

To  dwell  in  all  the  earth ; 
And  Adam's  sin  was  shared  and  laid 

At  each  man's  door  at  birth. 

Condemned  to  toil  were  all  the  race; 

But  is  it  thus  with  all? 
The  gilded  idler  struts  apace 

Mid  rank  and  pomp  and  ball. 

Then,  oh !  from  whence  hath  man  the  power, 

The  absolute  control, 
To  play  the  mock-god  for  an  hour 

O'er  human  heart  and  soul  ?" 


The  sun  had  rolled  his  golden  car 
Adown  behind  the  western  hill ; 

And  I,  amid  the  rocks  afar, 

Stood  wrapped  in  meditation  still. 

While  o'er  the  landscape  far  and  near 
A  greyish,  sombre  veil  had  spread, 

Suggesting  to  the  soul  the  drear 
And  awful  silence  of  the  dead. 

Fair  Cynthia  with  her  smiling  face, 
And  all  her  diamond-spangled  train, 

Were  pouring  from  the  fields  of  space 
Their  silver  beams  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


170  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Just  as  I  turned  to  leave  the  scene 
And  seek  again  my  humble  cot, 

I  spied  a  man  with  hoary  mien, 
The  hermit  of  some  lonely  grot. 

"Be  not  in  haste,"  said  he,  ''young  man; 

Thy  task  is  incomplete. 
In  quest  of  truth  thou  oughtest  scan 

Beneath  the  surface  sheet. 

And  that  thine  age  may  ne'er  undo 

The  labors  of  thy  youth, 
Learn  this,  no  superficial  view 

Hath  e'er  revealed  a  truth. 

There  is  a  source  for  every  stream, 

A  cause  for  every  woe, 
But  veiled  in  mist  they  often  seem 

To  mortals  here  below. 

Canst  thou  behold  yon  silvery  moon 

And  all  the  stars  above, 
And  still  the  omniscient  God  impugn 

With  motives  less  than  love? 

Those  stars  are  worlds,  for  aught  we  know, 

And  peopled  like  our  own ; 
And  move  and  live  within  the  glow 

And  presence  of  God's  throne. 

For  earth  is  but  a  speck  of  sand 

Compared  to  all  the  spheres 
That  ushered  from  Jehovah's  hand 

When  time  began  his  years. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  171 

And  canst  thou  think!     Ah,  think  again! 

Casnt  thou  believe  that  he 
The  God  of  all  yon  starry  train, 

Would  work  thy  misery? 

But  thou  wouldst  know  why  wrongs  abound, 

And  whence  man  hath  the  power 
To  crush  his  fellow  to  the  ground, 

And  like  a  beast,  devour. 

Thou  mayst  find  in  Adam's  fall 

A  key  for  every  'why,' 
Of  blood  and  want  and  woe,  with  all 

The   wrongs   beneath   the   sky. 

For  man,  the  last  and  crowning  sheaf, 
The  sixth  day's  work  of  Heaven, 

Was  made  by  God,  and  crowned  a  chief, 
And  wide  dominion  given. 

Made  like  his  God,  God  of  his  will, 

With  reason  for  his  guide, 
And  power  to  choose  the  good  or  ill, 

Or  either  cast  aside.  « 

Thus  crowned  was  he  when  first  he  trod 

Fair  Eden's  vale  and  wood, 
And  wore  the  image  of  his  God, 

And  God  pronounced  him  good. 

Good  was  the  earth  and  all  its  bowers, 

Good  every  cool  retreat ; 
And  all  the  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers 

With  goodness  were  replete." 


172  BELL'S    POEMS. 


TRIUMPHS  OF  THE  FREE. 

Hail,  thou  observed  of  many  lands, 

Let  all  thy  banners  be  unfurled, 
This  brilliant  act  of  thine  commands 

The  commendations  of  the  world; 
And  all  the  brave  of  every  tongue 

Shall  heap  encomiums  on  thy  name, 
While  many  a  lute  shall  there  be  strung 

To  chant  the  wonders  of  thy  fame. 

No  victory  won  by  land  or  sea, 

No  battle  fought  since  war  began, 
Has  done  so  much  for  liberty — 

So  much  for  humanizing  man — 
And  never  while  that  old  flag  waves, 

Proud  ensign  of  the  noble  free, 
Wilt  thou  achieve  for  all  thy  braves 

A  more  ennobling  victory. 

For  lo !  the  lightning  spark  which  flew 

With  thought-like  speed  from  east  to  west, 

Brought  to  the  honest,  good,  and  true, 
Glad  tidings — while  to  the  oppressed 

And  writhing  bondsman  'neath  the  yoke, 

It  was  as  when  o'er  Bethlehem's  plains 
An  angel-choir  the  silence  broke, 

And  charmed  the  shepherds  with  their  strains. 

To  them,  poor,  hopeless,  and  forlorn, 
It  seemed  a  Savior  had  been  given — 

A  very  Jesus  had  been  born, 

The  gift  of  God — a  child  of  heaven. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  173 

For  all  the  hopes  of  all  their  race, 
Swung  on  the  slender  thread  of  choice, 

But  interposing  heavenly  grace 
Controlled  events,  hence  we  rejoice. 

Rejoice!  rejoice!  the  bondsmen's  free, 

The  last  foul  link  in  their  last  chain, 
This  glorious  Union  victory 

Will  change  to  molten  ore  again. 
Rejoice!  rejoice!  our  prayer's  been  heard; 

Let  all  who  love  the  truth  rejoice, 
For  lo !  the  man  our  hearts  preferred 

Becomes  again  the  nation's  choice. 

i 
Her  choice  to  fill  that  high  estate, 

Grand  place  of  trust,  most  lofty  sphere, 
Commandant  and  chief  magistrate 

O'er  all  her  interest  far  and  near; 
Her  choice,  but  not  from  blood  or  birth, 

Or  vague  hereditary  claim ; 
But  chosen  by  the  mighty  North 

For  honest  truth  and  patriot  fame! 

Chosen  because  he  loved  this  land, 

Dear  home  of  his  progenitors — 
Too  well  to  countenance  a  band 

Of  traitorous  conspirators; 
Too  well  to  see  that  noble  flag, 

Beneath  whose  folds  his  fathers  fought, 
Insulted  as  a  worthless  rag, 

And  thrust  beneath  the  earth  to  rot. 

Chosen  again,  though  not  as  when 

The  nation  only  deemed  him  true ; 
For  now  since  all  the  skill  of  men 

Combined  with  treason's  dastard  crew. 


174  BELL'S    POEMS. 

In  vain  for  four  long  years  have  tried 
His  god-like  truth  to  compromise, 

He's  grown  a  struggling  nation's  pride 
Whom  millions  love  and  idolize. 

Whom  millions  love — why  should  they  not  ? 

And  though  they  verge  idolatry, 
When  we  compare  their  present  lot 

With  that  of  chains  and  slavery, 
We  scarcely  can  prefer  a  charge, 

'Tis  so  in  keeping  with  the  race 
That  whence  they  draw  in  blessings  large, 

Thither   their   hearts   best   loves    we   trace. 

But  what  had  Lincoln  done  for  those — 

Those  weltering  'neath  the  gory  rod? 
Who  through  their  chains  and  cruel  blows, 

Had  long  been  looking  up  to  God? 
This  hath  he  done,  by  Truth's  control, 

Gave  Earth  and  Heaven  the  best  decree, 
Which  though  it  fail  to  reach  the  soul, 

Has  rent  the  veil  of  Slavery. 

Surely  the  gods  have  interposed, 

And  surely  heaven  has  answered  prayer, 
Else  why  are  mercy's  doors  unclosed; 

And  why  this  seeming  special  care ; 
And  why  this  steady  onward  march 

Of  Justice,  Truth  and  Liberty ; 
And  why  doth  heaven's  o'er-spreading  arch 

Look  down, with  such  complacency? 

And  why  this  overwhelming  vote 

By  which  great  Lincoln's  been  retained, 

Whose  wondrous  acts  of  world-wide  note 
Bears  freedom  to  the  long  enchained? 


BELL'S    POEMS.  175 

God  grant  to  him  an  arm  of  strength 

Co-equal  to  his  mighty  heart ; 
Then  shall  our  bleeding  land  at  length 

Bloom  like  the  rose  in  every  part. 

To  whom  save  him  could  we  commit 

The  nation's  weal  till  strife  is  closed, 
And  feel  that  he,  in  every  whit, 

Was  equal  to  the  task  imposed  ? 
Or,  taking  all  our  ills  in  view, 

Together  with  this  fiendish  war, 
Of  all  our  noble  heroes,  who 

Would  we  exchange  our  Lincoln  for? 

There's  valiant  Sherman,  Grant  and  Sigel, 

Each  have  bright  laurels  from  the  field, 
For  which  of  them  could  we  our  legal 

Claim  upon  our  faithful  Lincoln  yield? 
Relieve  it,  ye  who  will  or  may, 

Of  all  earth's  millions  there  are  none 
For  whom  America  today 

Would  change  her  honest  woodman's  son. 

i 

He  stands  preeminently  high, 

.    With  her  the  first  of  living  men, 

And  at  his  will  her  warriors  fly 

To  beard  Secessia  in  his  den. 
And  not  until  the  monster  lay 

As  docile  as  a  crouching  cur, 
Would  he  command  those  braves  away, 

Urged  on  by  each  incentive  spur. 

But  ere  his  office  shall  expire, 

Or  he  its  onerous  tasks  resign, 
May  Slavery  die,  and  War  retire, 

And  six  and  thirty  States  combine, 


176  BELL'S    POEMS. 

And  blend  in  one  unbroken  Union, 
Based  on  the  equal  rights  of  man, 

Where  discontent  or  vain  delusion 

Shall  ne'er  unsheath  their  swords  again. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  THE  CON- 
TRABANDS? 

Shall  we  arm  them?    Yes,  arm  them!     Give  to 

each  man 

A  rifle,  a  musket,  a  cutlass  or  sword; 
Then  on  to  the  charge !  let  them  war  in  the  van, 
Where  each  may  confront  with  his  merciless 

lord, 
And  purge  from  their  race,  in  the  eyes  of  the 

brave, 
The  stigma  and  scorn  now  attending  the  slave. 

I  would  not  have  the  wrath  of  the  rebels  to  cease, 
Their  hope  to  grow  weak  nor  their  courage  to 

wane, 
Till  the  contrabands  join  in  securing  a  peace, 

Whose  glory  shall  vanish  the  last  galling  chain, 
And  win  for  their  race  an  undying  respect 
In  the  land  of  their  prayers,   their  tears   and 
neglect. 

Is  the  war  one  for  Freedom  ?    Then  why,  tell  me 

why, 

Should  the  wronged  and  oppressed  be  debarred 
from  the  fight? 


BELL'S    POEMS.  177 

Does  not  reason  suggest,  it  were  noble  to  die 
In  the  act  of  supplanting  a  wrong  for  the 

right? 

Then  lead  to  the  charge !  for  the  end  is  not  far, 
When  the  contraband  host  are  enrolled  in  the 

war. 


"LIBERTY  OR  DEATH." 

Virginius,  the  Roman  Father, 
With  beating  heart,  though  brave, 

Beheld  his  fair  Virginia  doomed, 
To  be  a  tyrant's  slave. 

Despair  had  gather'd  on  his  brow, 

Commingled  with  regret; 
A  gleam  of  hope  ran  through  his  soul, 

I  may  redeem  her  yet. 

Come  hither,  belov'd  Virginia, 

Ere  we  forever  part; 
He  clasp'd  her  to  his  beating  breast, 

Then  stab'd  her  to  the  heart. 

Thus,  did  a  Roman  Father  slay, 

The  idol  of  his  soul, 
To  screen  her  from  a  tyrant's  lust, 

A  tyrant's  foul  control. 


178  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Though  this  was  done  in  days  of  yore, 
The  act  was  truly  brave; 

What  value,  pray,  is  life  to  man, 
If  that  man  be  a  slave? 

Go  and  ask  of  Margaret  Garner, 
Who's  now  in  prison  bound, 

(No  braver  woman  e'er  hath  trod, 
Columbia's  slave-cursed  ground:) 

Why  did  she  with  a  mother's  hand 
Deprive  her  child  of  breath  ? 

She'll  tell  you,  with  a  Roman's  smile, 
That  slavery's  worse  than  death. 

O !  that  every  bondman  now, 

Through  all  that  slave-cursed  land, 

Had  each  a  heart  like  Margaret's, 
Their  freedom  to  demand. 

Then  the  Jubilee  year  would  come; 

On  spire  and  dome  you'd  see 
Inscribed  in  blazing  characters, 

That  all  mankind  are  free. 

Long  live  the  name  of  Margaret, 
In  every  freeman's  breast ; 

And  when  her  days  are  numbered  here, 
May  she  in  heaven  be  blest! 


BELL'S     POEMS.  179 


A  HOLY  MESSENGER. 
Dedicated  to   Rev.   Thomas   M.   D.   Ward. 

The  voice  of  Macedonia 

From  California  o'er  the  seas, 
And  yet,  to  help  her,  there  was  none ; 

No,  none  that  offered  to  appease 
Her  anguish,  and  with  words  of  cheer, 
A.  cordial  bring-  for  all  her  fear. 

At  length  that  voice  fell  on  thy  heart, 
And  yielding  to  its  plaintive  strain, 

I  see  thee  with  thy  kindred  part — 
Resolved  to  cross  the  dashing  main, 

And  plant  life's  crimson  banner,  where 

Sin's  dark  pollutions  taint  the  air. 

Then  all  thy  life,  or  short  or  long — 
Then  all  thy  powers,  small  or  great, 

To  God,  to  whom  they  all  belong, 
Anew  thou  didst  them  dedicate ; 

And  o'er  the  broad  and  trackless  deep 

Came  hither  both  to  sow  and  reap. 

Thy  coming  found  us  poor  indeed, 

Unsheltered  from  the  blasts  that  blow, — 

No  sacred  Zion  where  in  need, 

Earth's  sad  and  sorrowing  ones  might  go; 

And  leave  this  world  of  care  and  doubt, 

With  all  its  carking  fears  without. 


180  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Thou  didst  not  come  as  many  came, 
Alone  to  fill  thy  purse  with  gold, 

Thy  mission  and  thy  noble  aim, 
God's  glorious  Gospel  to  unfold, 

And  through  His  aid,  to  seek  and  save 

The  lost  and  wrecked  on  ruin's  wave. 


Hence,  with  thy  cross  of  faith  upreared, 
Thy  book  of  promise  widely  spread ; 

While  godless  thousands  scoffed  and  jeered, 
Thou  didst  portray  the  life  Christ  led, 

And  how  he  bore  sin's  chastening  rod 

To  win  the  erring  back  to  God. 

Though  many  scoffed,  yet  some  gave  heed; 

Though  many  scorned,  yet  some  have  prayed, 
And  found  in  that  dread  hour  of  need 

Thy  Christ,  their  refuge  and  their  aid ; 
Their   friend,  while  passing  through  that  vale 
Where  all  our  mortal  friendship  fail. 

And  thus  thy  labors  have  been  crowned — 
Crowned  with  many  a  signal  good; 

While  error's  hosts  have  darkly  frowned, 
Many  have  joined  the  angelhood ; 

And  in  life's  morn,  for  each  of  them, 

A  star  shall  deck  thy  diadem. 

Meanwhile  thy  toils  have  reared  on  high, 

In  grand  memorial  of  thy  name, 
Our  bethel,  where,  as  years  sweep  by, 

Shall  live  the  record  of  thy  fame — 
The  record  of  thy  godly  zeal, 
That  all  may  see,  and  know,  and  feel. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  181 

And  now  that  duty  calls  thee  hence, 

Once  more  to  cross  the  briny  wave, 
Once  more  to  stand  in  our  defense, 

Amidst  the  holy,  loved  and  brave; 
Go,  and  may  his  presence  be  thy  stay, 
Whom  maddening  waves  and  winds  obey. 


SONS  OF  ERIN. 

Ye  sons  of  Erin  who  have  come 

To  this  fair  land  to  make  your  home, 

Look  back  upon  your  native  shore, 

Where  lordling  rule  makes  thousands  poor, 

And  tell  me  why  ye  stand  arrayed 

With  those  who  would  your  rights  invade? 

With  those  who  would  extend  a  course 

Of  human  bondage,  tenfold  worse 

Than  England's  Land  Monopoly, 

All  o'er  this  land  of  Liberty. 


Know  ye  not  that  with  the  class 
Known  as  the  Democratic  mass 
Stand  your  uncompromising  foes, 
And  source  of  all  our  country's  woes  ? 
Tyrants,  whose  avaricious  lust, 
Would  fain  have  ground  you  to  the  dust, 
Long  ere  time's  dial  marked  this  hour, 
Had  their  best  wishes  been  their  power. 


182  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Remember  great  O'Connell's  name! 
And  sully  not  his  world-wide  fame 
By  any  glaring  act  of  shame; 
Remember  how  he  once  returned 
To  Southern  planters  moneys  earned 
By  the  bondman  'neath  the  yoke, 
And  all  those  burning  words  he  spoke ; 
And  let  your  great  example  be 
His  life  and  marked  consistency. 


ELIZA  HARRIS'  PARENTAL  LOVE. 

When  February's  chilling  winds 

Swept  through  the  forest  glen, 
And  nothing  save  the  smoking  hut 

Marked  the  abodes  of  men, 
I  through  my  lattice  chanced  to  peep ; 

And  far  amid  the  storm 
A  slender  female  shape  advanced 

With  something  in  her  arms. 

An  unexpected  sight  like  this 

Won  my  attention  o'er, 
And  wistfully  I  stood  till  she 

Rapped  lightly  at  the  door. 
She  entered  bearing  in  her  arms 

A  little  sportive  boy, 
Whose   jetty   locks,   though   all   disheveled, 

Revealed  a  face  of  joy. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  183 

Can  I  be  ferried  o'er  the  stream? 

Sad  news  I've  heard  of  late 
About  one  of  my  children,  sir, 

I'm  fearful  of  his  fate. 
She  spoke  this  so  imploringly 

That   loath    I    felt   to   say, 
The  perils  of  the  ice-gorged  stream 

I   cannot  brave  today. 

At  length  I  said,  if  possible 

Most  freely  I  would  go, 
The  floating  ice  is  so  condensed 

The  boat  cannot  pass  through. 
'Twas  evening,  and  the  sun  sunk  fast 

Toward   the   western   mound, 
And  e'er  an  hour  could  have  past 

Night's  gloom  would  spread  around. 

She  lay  her  babe  upon  the  bed 

And  threw  her  bonnet  by, 
Then  from  the  center  of  the  soul 

Came  one  despairing  sigh. 
The  tramp  of  horses'  feet  was  heard 

Upon  the  frozen  ground. 
She  stood  aghast,  then  seized  her  child 

And  made  a  fearful  bound. 

'Tis  he,  'tis  he,  she  wildly  cried, 

Oh !  save  my  darling  child ; 
While  towards  the  water's  edge  she  ran 

Like  one  far  more  than  wild. 
She  saw  the  tyrant  pressing  hard, 

Her  Harry  was  his  slave ; 
She  then  resolved  to  cross  the  stream 

Or  perish  'neath  the  wave.  » 


184  BELL'S    POEMS. 

From  slab  to  slab  of  floating  ice 

She  leaped  amid  its  roar, 
Till  with  her  Harry  in  her  arms 

She  reached  the  other  shore. 
While  he  who  caused  this  fearful  scene 

Stood  speechless  as  a  plank, 
And  saw  the  object  of  his  chase 

Born  safely  up  the  bank. 

She's  free,  and  nobly  has  she  won 

The  boon  by  nature  given. 
May  she  be  blest  while  here  on  earth, 

And  doubly  blest  in  heaven. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  185 


THE  FIRST  OF  AUGUST. 

Hail !  hail  thou  glorious  first ! 

Proud  day  of  Liberty, 
Thy  dawning  wakes  the  burst 

Of  India's  jubilee; 
And  calls  to  mind  that  happy  morn 
When  Freedom's  thousand  sons  were  born. 

That  morn  when  o'er  the  main 

Bless'd  Freedom's  angel  flew, 
And  rent  each  galling  chain, 

And  loud  her  tocsin  blew ; 
When  hoary  age  became  a  boy, 
And  every  heart  leaped  up  for  joy. 

Hail !  hail  thou  glorious  day, 

We  greet  thy  blest  return, 
With  speech  and  gladsome  lay, 

And  fervent  hearts,  that  burn 
To  join  with  those  amid  the  sea, 
Whose  songs  and  shouts  are  Liberty! 

Speed,  Lord,  the  glorious  day 

When  o'er  our  native  land 
Fond  Liberty  shall  sway 

Her  sceptre  of  command ; 
And  every  yoke  and  galling  chain, 
Shall  vanish  'neath  her  peaceful  reign. 


186  BELL'S    POEMS. 


TRIBUTE  TO  REV.  WILLIAM  PAUL 
QUINN, 

Late  Senior  Bishop,  African  M.  E.  Church. 

Death  is  the  common  lot  of  all, 

Yet  nothing  do  we  so  much  dread; 

Nothing  that  doth  our  frames  befall 

From  which  we  shrink  as   from  the  dead. 

Though  all  familiar  with  the  fact 
That  death  is  everywhere  unseen, 

Yet  from  his  touch  we  stagger  back 

And  strive  to  thrust  long  years  between. 

But  why  this  weakness  on  our  part? 

And  why  does  nature  thus  recoil? 
And  why  are  we  so  loath  to  part 

From  this  vain  world  of  pain  and  toil  ? 

This  always,  was  a  house  of  death, 
And  e'er  has  been  a  vale  of  tears ; 

Here  sorrow  mingles  with  our  breath, 
And  poisons  life  in  all  its  years. 

And  yet  from  death  frail  nature  shrinks, 
And  still  the  finite  man  complains, 

And  e'en  the  spirit  man,  that  thinks, 
Clings  to  his  prison  and  his  chains. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  187 

And  why?    The  vast  beyond  is  dark 

And  veiled  in  deepest  mystery, 
And  reason's  lamp  reveals  no  mark 

Decisive  of  our  destiny. 

There  is  but  one  remedial  course 

By  which  we  may  and  can  obtain 
From  dread  of  death  a  full  divorce, 

And  evermore  absolved  remain. 

Implicit  confidence  imposed 

In  Jesus,  God's  anointed  Son, 
Will  fill  the  heart  to  doubt  disposed 

With  deathless  joys  on  earth  begun, 

For  faith  in  Christ  dispels  the  gloom, 
And  hope  extends  her  spotless  sails 

And  finds  with  God  beyond  the  doom 
A  heaven  and  life  that  never  fails. 

This  mortal  shall  immortal  wear, 

Corruption  ihcorruption  take, 
And  saints  of  God  with  Christ  shall  share 

The  boundlessness  of  his  estate. 


But  why  is  this  fair  temple  clad 

In  these  habiliments  of  woe? 
And  wrhy  are  all  our  faces  sad, 

Bereft  of  their  accustomed  glow? 

And  why  those  dirge  tones  from  the  choir? 

And  why  are  all  these  people  here? 
What  strange  and  burdensome  desire 

Has  thus  induced  them  to  appear 


188  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Where  all  doth  seemingly  partake 
Of  some  unusual  widespread  gloom, 

That  to  our  awe-struck  natures  wake 
The  sad  reflections  of  the  tomb  ? 

With  all  the  dread  solemnities 

Associated  with  that  word, 
The  severance  of  affinities, 

Life-loves  and  friendships  long  preferred. 

This  spreading  pall,  these  gloomy  scenes, 
Those  dirge  tones  falling  on  the  ear, 

Are  but  the  more  impressive  means 
Of  telling  us  that  death  is  here. 

Although  no  shrouded  corpse  is  brought 

Within  this  sacred  fane  today, 
To  demonstrate  what  death  hath  wrought 

Upon  man's  frail  impassioned  clay ; 

Yet,  to  our  Zion,  death  has  come, 
And  ta'en  away  from  our  embrace 

One  loved  abroad  and  loved  at  home, 
The  Father  Bishop  of  our  race. 

And  hence,  dear  friends,  we've  come  to  pay 

A  parting  tribute  of  respect, 
And  thus  our  humble  offering  lay 

Upon  the  shrine  of  God's  elect. 

Fain  would  we  speak  in  terms  of  praise 
Of  one  whose  life  has  been  bestowed 

In  countless  efforts  to  upraise 
A  people  writhing  'neath  a  load. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  189 

As  Moses  saw,  in  Egypt's  land, 

The  hardships  that  his  people  bore, 
And  rather  chose  with  them  to  stand 

Than  heir  the  wealth  of  Pharaoh's  store. 

So  felt  the  valiant,  youthful  Quinn 
When  he  beheld  oppression's  horde 

(Steeped  to  the  very  lips  in  sin) 
Defile  the  altars  of  the  Lord. 

For  Slavery's  Pharisaic  hand 

Had  closed  the  book  of  life  and  light, 
And  all  the  churches  of  our  land 

Had  bowed  submissive  to  his  might. 

And  there  was  neither  court  nor  fane 
Where  God's  lorn  sons  of  ebon  hue, 

Though  ne'er  so  humble,  could  obtain 
A  place  of  worship  as  their  due. 

And  Macedonia's  cry  was  heard 

On  every  breeze,  and  everywhere, 
"Oh,  come  and  break  to  us  the  word 

Of  life,  and  lead  our  hearts  in  prayer." 

He  rose,  like  the  intrepid  Paul, 

And  in  the  vigor  of  his  youth, 
Resolved,  whatever  might  befall, 

To  bear  to  these  the  words  of  truth. 


Although  his  purse  was  ill-supplied 
With  means  sufficient  for  the  call, 

Yet,  he  on  heavenly  grace  relied, 
And  God,  the  Lord,  arranged  it  all. 


190  BELL'S    POEMS. 

God  was  his  friend,  his  guard  and  guide, 
His  refuge  and  his  mighty  tower. 

And  well  he  knew  He  would  provide 
For  every  need  and  trying  hour ; 

And  hence  he  left  all  else  behind, 
Save  God  and  His  abounding  grace, 

And  started  forth  to  heal  and  bind 
The  bruises  of  his  injured  race. 

Now,  from  the  dread  abyss  of  time, 
Call  back  the  flight  of  three-score  years 

And,  lo!  all  clothed  in  grace  sublime, 
A  weird  and  beardless  youth  appears. 

He's  tall,  and  for  commanding  mien, 
A  finer  mold  is  seldom  seen ; 
His  brow  is  high,  his  locks  are  jet, 
His  eyes  are  fierce,  his  lips  are  met. 

His  words  are  rapid  in  their  flow, 
Confined  to  neither  high  nor  low, 
But  of  that  modulated  form 
Which  always  tempers  to  the  storm. 

Where'er  he  moves  he  rears  on  high 
The  ensign  of  his  ministry, 
And  thousands  throng  to  hear  his  speech, 
And  learn  whereof  he  came  to  teach 

The  matchless  story  of  the  cross, 
Compared  to  which  all  else  is  dross, 
Comprise  the  burden  and  refrain, 
And  many  hear  and  hear  again. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  191 

And  wonder  at  his  matchless  zeal, 

His  fervent  prayer,  his  strong  appeal, 

And  as  he  pictures  forth  the  doom 

Of  sin,  which  kills  beyond  the  tomb-  ' 

Many  are  pricked  e'en  to  the  heart 
And,  jailor-like,  the  cry  doth  start: 
"Sir,  to  be  saved,  what  shall  I  do? 
For  all  these  burning  words  are  true. 

And  I  am  wretched  and  undone. 

O,  whither  shall  I  fly  to  shun 

The  wrath  of  an  avenging  God, 

Just  retribution's  chastening  rod?"  > 

He  points  them  to  the  crimson  tide, 
And  to  a  Savior  crucified, 
And  says  to  all :    "Repent,  believe, 
Forsake  your  sins  and  you  shall  live." 

And  as  he  goes  forth,  here  and  there, 
New  altars  rise  up  unto  prayer; 
Though  rude  and  meagre,  yet  are  they 
In  all  things  equal  to  the  day. 

And  as  the  years  move  on  apace 
He  stands  the  center  of  a  race 
Whose  faces  are  upturned  to  God, 
Praying  heaven  to  break  the  rod 
And  overturn  the  powers  of  sin 
And  let  the  jubilant  year  come  in. 

Near  three-score  years  on  Zion's  walls 

A  faithful  sentinel  he  stood, 
And  all  his  sermons,  prayers  and  calls 

Were  mingled  with  atoning  blood. 


192  BELL'S    POEMS. 

He  was,  in  truth,  a  burning  light, 
And  sinners  trembled  in  his  sight; 
For  nothing  earthly  could  deter, 
Nor  friends  persuade  him  to  defer, 
What  duty  urged  him  to  perform 
In  weal  or  woe,  in  calm  or  storm. 

But  oh !  how  changed ;  his  raven  hair 
Is  thin  and  bleached  as  white  as  snow, 

His  face  is  furrowed  deep  with  care, 
His  frame  is  weak,  his  steps  are  slow. 

Thus  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  years, 
He  brings  his  cross  and  lays  it  down 

At  Jesus'  feet  ''midst  angels'  cheers, 
And  on  his  brow  receives  a  crown — 

A  crown  of  life,  bestud  with  stars, 
The  trophies  of  his  conquest  here 

Midst  earth's  interminable  wars, 

Where  all  the   foes  to  life  appear. 

He  conquered  in  the  Christian  fight, 
He  ran  the  Christian  race  and  won, 

And  in  the  realms  of  endless  light 

Has  heard  the  gladsome  sound :  "Well  done. 

Well  done,  for  faithful  hast  thou  been 
O'er  all  things  given  to  thy  care; 

Heir  of  my  Father's  house,  come  in, 
And  all  its  blest  provisions  share." 

Although  our  aged  bishop's  gone, 
And  we  on  earth  shall  meet  no  more, 

Yet  heaven  hath  many  a  vale  and  lawn, 
And  friendships  that  have  gone  before — 


BELL'S    POEMS.  193- 

Gone  to  the  realms  of  holy  love, 
Where  all  are  known  and  all  is  fair. 

For  in  our  Father's  house  above 
There  are  no  spirit  strangers  there. 

Though  gone  from  earth  he  is  not  dead — 
The  great  and  good  they  never  die; 

But  when  their  mortal  forms  they  shed, 
In  fadeless  youth  they  bloom  on  high. 

O,  could  we  pass  beyond  the  doom, 

And  range  through  fields,  forever  fair, 

Arrayed  in  heaven's  eternal  bloom, 
We'd  find  our  sainted  bishop  there. 

Then,  O,  my  friends,  rejoice  to  know, 
Where  he  has  gone  we  all  may  go, 
And  move  through  heaven  as  he  doth  now 
With  life's  fair  crown  upon  our  brow. 

For  heaven's  blest  plans  are  ample  quite 
For  all  whom  mercy  doth  invite ; 
And  every  son  of  Adam's  race 
The  invitation  may  embrace. 

For  in  our  Father's  house  there's  room 
For  all  his  children,  all  may  come. 
And  crowns  there  are  for  all  to  wear, 
And  palms  there  are  for  all  to  bear, 
And  robes  there  are  of  radiant  hue ; 
Go  up  and  claim  them  as  your  due. 

Farewell,  dear  bishop,  till  the  day 
When  death  shall  roll  the  stone  away, 
And  this  poor  soul  released  shall  fly 
To  hail  thee  in  the  realms  on  high. 


194  BELL'S    POEMS. 


THE  UNION  AND   THE  RIGHT. 
(A  Campaign  Song.) 

We've  placed  upon  our  banner, 

The  banner  of  the  free, 
Harrison  and  Morton, 

Success  and  victory. 
And  they  shall  bear  our  standard 

Throughout  the  coming  fight, 
And  this  shall  be  our  watchword, 

The  Union  and  the  Right, 

The  Union  and  the  Right, 
Harrison  and  Morton, 

The  Union  and  the  Right, 

Brave  sons  of  honored  sires, 

Well  known  in  days  of  old, 
And  tried  as  in  a  furnace, 

And  found  as  pure  as  gold ; 
Tried  'mid  the  din  of  battle, 

-  Or  in  the  halls  of  state, 
By  whatsoever  standard, 

The  twain  were  truly  great. 
And  they  shall  bear  our  standard 

Throughout  the  coming  fight, 
The  Union,  etc. 

Our  coats  we've  doffed  for  battle, 

And  don't  propose  to  yield 
Until  the  latest  foeman 

Is  banished  from  the  field. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  195 

With  Harrison  and  Morton 

To  lead  our  countless  host, 
To  rally  is  to  conquer, 

With  each  man  at  his  post. 
And  they  shall  bear  our  standard 

Throughout  the  coming  fight, 
The  Union,  etc. 

Go,  bear  the  news  to  Grover, 

And  tell  him  that  the  boys 
Are  shouting  loud  for  Harrison, 

Are  making  lots  of  noise; 
And  will  in  next  November, 

Unless  they're  much  deceived, 
Permit  his  arduous  labors 

To  be  somewhat  relieved, 
For  Harrison  and  Morton 

Are  leaders  in  the  fight. 
And  this  shall  be  our  watchword, 

The  Union,  etc. 

And  tell  him  that  his  vetoes 

Don't  suit  the  boys  in  blue ; 
As  at  the  time  of  voting 

He'll  find  it  doubly  true ; 
For  he  who  snubs  a  soldier 

Shall  feel  a  soldier's  wrath, 
With  many  thorns  and  briars 

Strewn  thickly  in  his  path ; 
For  Harrison  and  Morton,  etc. 

Take  hence  that  foul  bandanna, 

With  all  its  filth  and  slime, 
And  give  us  the  starry  stripes, 

Flag  of  our  olden  time; 


196  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Then  with  our  gallant  leader, 

The  son  of  Tippecanoe, 
We'll  show  you  in  November 

What  patriots  can  do. 
For  Harrison  and  Morton 

Are  leaders  in  this  fight, 
And  this  shall  be  our  watchword  : 

The  Union  and  the  Right. 


SONG  FOR  THE  FIRST  OF  AUGUST 

With  cheerful  hearts  we've  come 
From  many  a  happy  home, 

Our  friends  to  greet ; 
And  pass  a  social  hour 
Beneath  this  leafy  bower, 
Where  many  a  shrub  and  flower 

In  fragrance  meet. 


WTe  come  to  joy  with  those 
Whose  gloomy  night  of  woes 
Have  past  away, 
And  render  worthy  meeds 
To  men  whose  noble  deeds 
First  cast  the  genial  seeds 
Of  Liberty. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  197 

Then  let  our  heart's  best  song 
In  acclamations  strong, 

Reach  heaven's  height, 
In  honor  of  that  hour 
When  Slavery's  massive  tower 
Crumble  beneath  the  power 

Of  truth  and  right. 


This  is  proud  Freedom's  day! 
Swell,  swell  the  gladsome  day, 

Till  earth  and  sea 
Shall  echo  with  the  strain, 
Through  Britain's  vast  domain ; 
No  bondman  clanks  his  chain, 

All  men  are  free. 


God  hasten  on  the  time 

When  Slavery's  blighting  crime 

And  curse  shall  end ; 
When  man  may  widely  roam 
Beneath  the  arching  dome, 
And  find  with  man  a  home, 

In  man  a  friend. 


198  BELL'S    POEMS. 


DESCRIPTIVE  VOYAGE  FROM  NEW 
YORK  TO  ASPINWALL. 

Farewell,  for  now  my  gallant  bark, 

Loosed  from  her  mooring,  quits  the  shore 

Amid  a  fog  and  mist  as  dark 

As  that  which  spread  old  Egypt  o'er. 

On  this  black  and  fearful  night, 

She  dare  not  venture  out  to  sea 
Lest  on  some  rock  or  reef  she  might, 

At  early  dawn,  all  foundered  be. 

Hence  till  the  mist  and  fog  had  fled ; 
Until  the  morning  rays  had  spread 
Her  genial  rays  o'er  land  and  tide, 
My  anchored  bark  doth  proudly  ride. 

'Tis  morn  and  now  my  goodly  ship, 
With  spreading  canvas  all  unfurled, 

Like  frighted  deer  doth  bound  and  skip; 
Old  Neptune's  waves  doth  proudly  hurl, 

While  smiles  of  peace  and  calm  resign 
Paints  every  cheek  or  decks  the  brow ; 

And  of  the  Hundreds  none  repine, 
But  all  seems  resignation  now. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  199 

A  steady,  brisk,  increasing  gale 
Spreads  to  the  compass  all  our  sail 
And  bears  us  o'er  the  trackless  main 
From  friends  we  hope  to  meet  again. 

'Tis  night  and  now,  if  forged  in  wrath 

And  on  destruction's  errand  sent, 
The  mountain  waves  that  sweep  our  path 

Could  scarcely  be  more  violent; 

\ 

But  while  she  reels  thus  to  and  fro 

The  sickest  of  the  sick  am  I 
And  from  my  system  would  I  throw 

It's  last  contents,  or  even  die. 

Oh,  of  all  that's  known  or  heard 

Of  sickness  in  its  varied  form, 
The  last  of  all  to  be  preferred 

Is  sea  sick-sickness  in  a  storm. 

Too  sick  to  live,  nor  can  we  tell 
Why  in  this  neither  state  we  dwell, 
For  life  seems  scarcely  worth  the  breath 
That  severs  our  sad  state  from  death. 

And  we're  it  not  for  superstition, 

We'd  claim  some  Jonah  somewhere  stored; 
And  yet  'tis  true  our  sad  condition 

Changed  not  till  one  leaped  over  board. 

Yes,  on  that  night  of  winds  and  tide, 
One  poor  unfortunate  and  unknown 

Leaped  from  our  vessel's  wave-washed  side 
And  found  his  coral  bed  alone. 


£00  BELL'S    POEMS. 

O !    Thou  eternal  mystery, 

Thou  grand,  sublime,  though  awful  sea, 

Alas,  how  oft  thy  fury  smothers 

The  last  fond  hope  of  wives  and  mothers. 

'Tis  morn  the  fourth  and  calm's  the  sea 
As  though  some  talesmanic  wand 

Had  quelled  the  waves  inebriety 
By  virtue  of  the  wielder's  hand ; 

For  e'er  had  bloomed  the  misty  morn, 
Fair  Luna  sweeping  o'er  the  main 

Had  caught  the  fierce  winds  in  her  horn, 
And  bound  the  mad  waves  with  a  chain. 

Then  old  Atlantic  calmed  his  raid, 
As  though  some  shrewd  Philistine  maid 
Had  won  his  heart  and  ta'en  away 
His  bristling  waves  and  angry  spray — 

'Tis  moonlight  on  the  deep  blue  sea, 
And,  skimming  o'er  the  curling  wave, 

My  gallant  bark  moves  blithe  and  free 
•As  mind  could  wish  or  heart  could  crave. 

Nor  lays  she  for  the  sluggish  breeze 
That  fain  would  seek  a  night's  repose. 

Impelled  by  steam  she  beats  the  seas, 
With  her  huge  arm  thus  on  she  goes. 

And  bears  me  toward  that  sunny  clime, 
Where  grows  the  orange  and  the  lime 
And  flowers  of  every  varied  hue 
From  lily  white  to  violet  blue. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  201 

'Tis  morn,  the  seventh  and  the  last, 
And  here  my  Baltic  voyage  must  end ; 

Through  calms  and  storms  and  death  she's  past 
To  reach  this  hot  and  sultry  clime ; 

For  Aspinwall  is  a  sultry  place, 

Where  noxious  vapors  taint  the  air, 

And  peopled  by  a  tribal  race 

Most  thinly  clad  with  little  care ; 

And  yet  the  denizens  you  find 
Residing  liere  are  wondrous  kind, 
And  versed  in  many  a  tender  word 
By  which  the  heart  to  love  is  stirred. 

Yet  Aspin wall's  a  sultry  place, 
For  here  the  sunshine  and  the  rain 

Meet  each  other  and  embrace 
As  lovers  do, — then  part  again. 

For,  in  the  space  of  'one'brief  hour, 

The  sun  will  shine  and  then  a  shower 

Of  rain  will  fall  so  thick  and  fast, 

You'd  think  the  clouds  would  weep  their  last. 

But  O,  if  in  her  gorgeous  dress, 
Nature  in  all  her  loveliness 
The  world  encomium  should  command, 
'Tis  on  this  narrow  frith  of  land ; 

For  rarer  fruits  and  fairer  flowers 
Scarce  ever  bloomed  in  Eden  bowers, 
Than  bud  and  bloom  and  ripen  here 
Through  all  the  seasons  of  the  year. 


202  BELL'S    POEMS. 

For  there's  no  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Nor  much  of  joy  without  regret ; 

For  where  our  brightest  hopes  are  born, 
Sad  disappointments  oft  are  met. 

Nor  have  we  an  exception  found 
In  this  bright  land  so  seeming  fair, 

For  here  while  beauty  paints  the  ground, 
A  foul  miasma  taints  the  air ; 

And  oft  so  direful  in  their  sway 
That  hundreds  perish  in  a  day. 
O,  Land  of  sunshine  and  of  showers, 
Of  rarest  fruits  and  fairest  flowers, 

Adieu !  Adieu,  for  at  the  quay 

A  vessel  waits  to  bear  away, 

Not  only  me,  but  many  a  score 

That  fain  would  leave  thv  fevered  shore. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  203 


PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOE. 

A  Red  chief  dwelling  near  a  lake, 

Beneath  a  Western  sky, 
Felt  soon  his  hold  on  life  must  break, 

And  he  lay  down  and  die — 

He  called  around  his  wigwam  door 

His  warriors  brave  and  true 
And  gave  to  each  a  tiny  oar, 

Saying,  "Paddle  your  own  canoe," 

For  I  your  brave  who  taught  the  bow 

And  how  to  poise  the  dart, 
And  how  the  bearded  shaft  to  throw 

With  many  a  needful  art, 

Am  full  of  years  and  cannot  stand 

As  I  were  wont  to  do ; 
I  soon  must  try  the  spirit  land 

So  "Paddle  your  own  canoe." 

Then  lowly  bowed  each  warrior's  head, 
And  a  deep  long  sigh  he  drew, 

And  started  forth  with  measured  tread 
To  paddle  their  own  canoe. 

High  rose  the  waves  on  either  side, 
Loud  screamed  the  wild  sea  mew ; 

But  naught  could  daunt  their  warrior  pride, 
They  paddled  their  own  canoe — 


204  BELL'S    POEMS. 

O'er  rugged  heights  they  onward  sped, 

And  mazy  forests  through, 
And  whereso'er  their  duty  led, 

They  paddled  their  own  canoe. 

And  oft  in  fancy's  bark  they'd  speed 
Back  through  the  waters  blue, 

And  once  again  their  chieftain  heed 
Saying,  "Paddle  your  own  canoe." 

Should  friends  forsake,  should  fortune  fail 

Or  loved  one's  prove  untrue, 
Then  nerve  your  heart  and  courage  take, 

And  paddle  your  own  canoe. 

For  the  world  with  many  a  snare  is  set 

For  the  honest  and  the  true, 
And  they  alone  escape  the  net 

Who  paddle  their  own  canoe. 


BELL'S     POEMS.  205 


VALEDICTORY    ON    LEAVING    SAN 
FRANCISCO,   CALIFORNIA. 

There  is  no  cord,  however  strong, 
That  time  will  not  its  fibers  rend, 

Nor  weary  road,  howrever  long, 

But  constant  march  will  find  its  end. 

As  with  the  cord,  and  with  the  road, 

E'en  so  with  all  our  friendships  here ; 
Howe'er  so  worthily  bestowed. 

Our  loves  may  be  as  fond  and  dear, 
We  deem  the  object  of  our  trust; 

There  is  a  time,  and  come  it  must, 
An  hour  of  parting  on  the  wing, 

And  friendship's  heart  must  feel  the  sting. 

For  life  is  one  continuous  change; 

There's  nothing  stable,  nothing  sure, 
Nothing  in  all  our  mortal  range 

That  we  can  grasp  and  feel  secure. 

The  rose  will  wither  in  its  prime, 
The  violet  droop  its  head  and  die ; 

The  century  oak,  at  touch  of  time 

Will  prostrate  fall  and  mouldering  lie. 

And  e'en  the  granite  by  the  shore, 
Lashed  by  the  mad  waves  evermore, 
Will  waste  away,  grain  after  grain, 
Till  nothing  of  the  rock  remain. 


206  BELL'S    POEMS. 

And  yet,  with  all  these  facts  at  hand, 
How  friends,  solicitous  are  we, 

Weaving  with  care  the  silken  band 
As  though  'twas  for  eternity. 

What  pains  we  take  to  mold  a  friend, 
To  stamp  our  image  on  the  heart ; 

And  e'er  the  anxious  task  we  end, 
Stern  fate,  or  duty,  bids  us  part. 

Alas !  how  weather-like  is  life ; 

Eternal  sunshine  is  unknown. 
Our  joys  and  sorrows  room  with  strife, 

And  we  alternate,  laugh  and  mourn. 

Alas !  alas !  how  much  we  owe 
To  that  of  which  we  little  know. 
The  circumstances  of  an  hour ! 
These,  these  are  far  beyond  our  power. 

And  yet  in  these  we  widely  roam, 
Or  owe  to  them  our  lengthened  stay ; 

And  few  within  this  sacred  dome, 
Who  have  not  yielded  to  their  sway. 

E'en  'gainst  the  teachings  of  their  youth; 

Against  the  pledges  of  the  soul; 
Against  the  urgencies  of  truth, 

How  oft  we've  bowed  to  their  control. 

Nor  will  time  affect  their  claim, 
But  all  through  life  will  wield  the  same 
Matchless  power  and  mystic  spell, 
Producing  many  a  sad  farewell. 


BELL'S    POEMS.  207 

Farewell,  oh  land  of  my  sojourn! 

And  you,  the  many  friends  I've  met ; 
My  wandering  footsteps  homeward  turn, 

With  joys  commingled  with  regret. 

I  joy  in  sweet,  prospective  bliss, 
Of  meeting  soon  the  loved  and  true, 

And  sigh  for  friendships  I  shall  miss 
In  bidding  this  fair  land  adieu. 

But  ocean  waves,  nor  time  nor  place, 
Can  e'er  from  memory's  page  erase 
The  kindly  acts  and  friendly  care 
Bestowed  since  first  I  landed  here. 

I  came  a  stranger  to  your  land, 

A  wanderer  from  a  foreign  shore, 
With  neither  card  nor  scrip  in  hand 

Your  recognition  to  secure ;  ' 

But  he  who  cares  for  finite  dust, 
The  wise,  the  infinite,  the  just, 
Has  willed  each  humble  heart  a  friend 
Where'er  his  wandering  footsteps  tend. 

And  I  have  met  upon  your  shore 
The  willing  hand  and  open  door, 
And  many  a  word  of  kindly  cheer 
Has  greeted  my  arrival  here. 

Farewell !  farewell !  the  hour  has  come ! 
The  ship  that  waits  to  bear  me  home 
Lies  anchored  in  her  berth  at  bay ; 
And  soon,  as  dashing  through  the  foam, 
And  peradventure  through  the  storm, 
She'll  bear  me  on  my  homebound  way. 


208  BELL'S    POEMS. 

Yet,  on  and  on  till  the  land  shall  die, 
And  nothing  save  the  sea  and  sky 
Shall  come  within  my  vision's  range ; 
Not  e'en  a  bird  to  rise  or  change 
E'en  for  a  moment's  space  of  time 
The  all  monotonous,  sublime! 

Yet  on,  and  on,  with  my  trust  in  Him 
Who  laid  his  hand  on  the  ocean's  brim 
And  said  to  the  rolling  waves,  "Be  still !" 
And  the  wind  and  waves  obeyed  His  will; 
Then  trustingly  on  o'er  the  restless  tide, 
On  to  the  land  of  my  youthful  pride! 
Then  joyously  on  o'er  the  glorious  earth, 
Till  my  feet  shall  stand  on  my  homestead 
hearth. 

But  should  occasion  e'er  recall 

The  memory  of  my  presence  here; 

If  from  your  annual  festive  hall 

Is  missed  the  shattered  voice  you  hear ; 

Know  that  that  voice,  if  vocal,  still 

Its  humble  mission  to  fulfil, 

Somewhere,  in  God's  great  providence, 

Is  trilling  in  the  poor's  defense. 

Farewell,  farewell !  my  task  is  o'er ; 

And  if  on  earth  I  meet  you  never, 
Then,  then  upon  that  pearly  shore, 
Where  time  cannot  our  friendships  sever, 
Where  fadeless  blooms  the  tree  of  life, 
Where  enters  never  care  nor  strife, 
There  may  I  meet  you,  every  one, 
Father,  mother,  daughter,  son, 
Where  never  shall  rise  from  the  notes  that  swell,. 
The  heartrending  sighs  of  a  sad  farewell. 


INDEX. 


Page. 

Biographical   Sketch  and   Introduction 3 

Apostrophe   to   Time  t/ 15 

Creation    Light 16 

Admonition    19 

The  Black  Man's  Wrongs 26 

The  Dawn  of  Freedom 35 

The   Emancipation   of   Slaves   in   the  West   Indies  and 

District  of  Columbia 49 

The  Day  and  the  War 57 

Abolition  of  Slavery  in  the  District  of  Columbia 81 

The  Progress  of  Liberty 82 

Modern  Moses,  or  My  Policy  Man 107 

The  Triumph  of  Liberty 125 

The  Death  of  Lincoln 154 

The  Future  of  America,  in  the  Unity  of  the  Races 156 

The  Youthful  Villager  and  the  Hermit 165 

Triumph  of  the  Free 172 

What  shall  we  do  with  the  Contrabands 176 

Liberty  or  Death 177 

A  Holy  Messenger .. .  179 

Sons   of   Erin 181 

Eliza  Harris  or  Parental  Love 182 

The  First  of  August 185 

Tribute  to  Rev.  Wm.  Paul  Quinn 186 

The  Union  and  the  Right  (a  campaign  song) 194 

Song.     For  the  First  of  August 196 

Descriptive   Voyage   from   New  York  to  Aspinwall ....  198 

Paddle    'Your    Own    Canoe 203 

Valedictory — on    leaving    San    Francisco,    Cal 205 


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